


drabbles by Maris

by MarisFerasi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal, BAMF John, BDSM, Bonding, Cock Cages, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dildos, Established Johnlock, Fucking Machines, Heats, Kink Fic, Lots of Sex, M/M, Multi, PWP at its finest and grittiest, Pain, Punishments, Suspension, Threesomes, Various Kinks, badly written bdsm safety, dub-con, in every way, its explicit for a reason, kitty! lock, nothing but porn, rough, sissy training, tonnes of sex, various prompts filled
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ficlets (some together, some most not) about sexytimes that sherlock and the other boys get down to. each chapter has a summary of who/what/how, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. JohnLockStrade 1

**A/N" awwww havent had enough Johnlock porn for today? here ya go. a pretty two-shot coming your way. chapter 2 will be finished when i get around to it. this one hit me while i was in the post office today. go figure.**

**warnings:** **BDSM hogtying, suspension, toying, beating with cane and riding crop, a-frame, rimming, deep-throating, and finally, the most obvious, m/m sex**

**Chapter 1:**

"Oh, FUCK," Sherlock bellowed, face turning beet red as it hung between his ankles. He was bent double over a padded sawhorse, a rubber plug deep in his arse, with John standing right behind him, his trusty riding crop in hand. The smaller man made no sound, but John could just  _feel_  the smile playing on his lips as he raised the crop again, bringing it down possibly even harder on Sherlock's already stinging arse. He shook his head slightly to get the dog tags out of his face. They were his collar of choice; he wore them under everything, close to his skin. It made John hot when he saw them, too.

"Are you ready to apologize, Sherlock?" the doctor asked, walking around to the front of Sherlock and fisting a hand in his curls, yanking his head up so they could see each other. The detective struggled to swallow, his long pale neck strained as it was.

"If I had done something  _wrong_  I would, John. Correcting you isn't  _wrong_. You just didn't like it. So, NO," he growled, fisting his hands in their cuffs as he prepared for another blow. It never came. Instead, John grasped the base of the plug and tugged it out in one smooth motion, causing his lover's hole to clench uncomfortably before three fingers wormed their way into the stretched space.

"Gah! Warn a man first," he chided, flexing his overstretched thighs as much as he could. John had him completely sprawled out, as far as he could reach, tip-toe to fingertips brushing the carpet on either side of the wooden frame in the middle of the sitting room. His own erection bobbed in the empty air, devoid of any contact. He silently begged for either some friction, or an ungodly amount of prostate stimulation; he might choke John in his sleep if he didn't get to come after this. He looked down between his feet at John's ankles.

The man was still fully clothed?! He narrowed his eyes, his breath catching in his throat when a soft knock echoed through the room. The doctor pressed the toy back in Sherlock's arse and went to the door to the flat.

"John!" he cried, tugging at the bonds ferociously. He did NOT sign up for getting caught red-assed and naked in the living room! "John don't you  _dare!_ " he hissed, still trying to escape.

"Oh, hello, Greg." John opened the door the rest of the way, letting the DI into the room fully. Sherlock stilled. A low whistle permeated the silence, originating from Lestrade. Sherlock let his head hang, watching Lestrade walk deeper into the room, eyes glued to the scene before him. His skin prickled, and not from the beating he'd taken already.

"Pretty sight," he hummed, reaching out and running a gentle hand over the consulting detective's ravaged arse.

"He's been downright mouthy today, Greg. What do you recommend?" Greg tossed his coat over the arm of the sofa, leaning back in a pensive pose.

Sherlock only had to be patient for a moment. "John, I suppose you lot have rope around here? I'd love to hogtie the prat," he suggested. John nodded and retreated into their bedroom. Lestrade picked up the riding crop from the sofa and ran it through his fingers, walking around Sherlock in a slow circle before standing behind him again. Sherlock trembled a bit in his bonds. John had returned form the bedroom and threw down a huge amount of binding rope in the sofa. Greg smirked and raised the crop, bringing it down hard over Sherlock's hip. Fiberglass curved over bony flesh and the detective opened his mouth in a silent scream, a choked sob coming out instead as the retreat of the crop brought the pain in full force and a red welt was instantly raised on his skin. God, it was almost worse than a caning. Almost. Only now his skin screamed for want of bloodletting to reduce the swelling and the crop wasn't hard enough to induce the ripping of skin. Not quite, but Greg had almost achieved that goal. His thigh tremored with the spread of the pain through his nerves.  _Groby_ , he almost said it, it was on the tip of his tongue.  _No_ , his head demanded. You can do this.

"Jesus," he breathed, his breath catching as his hair was caught and his head yanked back. Greg held him still as John jammed a spider-gag in between his bicuspids and bucked it tight. It left his mouth nice and open for a cock but no coherent speech.

"Can you snap your fingers?" Lestrade asked, waiting for Sherlock to do so.

He didn't, smirking slightly. Well then.

"Oh, Greg I forgot to mention. He's a bit of a pain whore. You practically have to beat responses out of him or else leave him there to rot all hard and wanting until he caves." John was relaxing on the sofa now, next to the pile of ropes and very near Sherlock's head, leg crossed over his knee, brandy glass balanced there. Sherlock groaned, writhing against the sawhorse.

"Hmm." Greg swallowed his brandy, which John had handed him before he sat down, and set the glass on the coffee table on the other side of Sherlock's head. He tracked the movements with those pale eyes, trying to predict what Greg was thinking. The older man stooped and started unbuckling the cuffs, letting them drop from Sherlock's ankles and wrist. He pulled the detective up by his hair into a standing position and then pushed him down onto all fours. "Kneel," he growled. Sherlock knelt, hands splayed over his thighs, eyes on Greg's boots. "I suppose you have a ceiling hook in here somewhere?" the DI asked, sweeping the ceiling for such a device.

"Erm, yeah actually. In the bedroom," John supplied, gathering the rope back up and snapping his fingers at Sherlock. The tallest man followed the doctor on his hand and knees into his old bedroom which was now their bedroom. Greg followed, watching the rubber disc of the arse plug sway back and forth with Sherlock's hips. Next to the bed were affixed three ceiling hooks, in a straight row.

Perfection. Greg smirked.

"Alright then, what are our specific parameters?" he clapped his hands, looking at John. Neither of them had looked at Sherlock once since he stopped his crawling next to the foot of the bed. He pouted as much as he could with the metal gag jamming his teeth open.

"Well, Sherlock doesn't have any lines for us to not cross. He will literally do anything you tell him to, if he's in the right mind to obey, that is. He gets finicky; hard to handle, but the end game is the same. He gets off on attention, pain, and being bound and used, et cetera. Just doesn't do well when you leave him alone in a room all tied up."

Greg nodded thoughtfully. "Watching?" John nodded. He even saw Sherlock nod imperceptibly out of the corner of his eye. "Safeword?" he asked.

" _Gladstone_ ," John replied, finally looking back at Sherlock, who nodded once. "The pause word for giving a rest on say, a beating, but not ending the scene, is  _Groby_ ," he added, shifting the weight in his feet. Greg nodded, reaching past John for a length of rope. Sherlock stirred on the floor, his usually pale eyes tracking every move, devouring it.

"On your back," Greg ordered. "Knees bent, feet flat on the floor. Put your ankles as close to your bum as you can," he watched as Sherlock did as he was told, measuring out the rope in his hands. Then he knelt, wrapping one end of the rope several times around Sherlock's thin ankle, tying it off and looping the rope through the five bands of hemp before moving the rest of the rope to do the same to the man's upper thigh, right where it narrowed back down to meet the hip. Greg dipped his head and licked the wound he'd marked Sherlock's hip bone with very delicately, making the youngest man in the room whimper and jerk a bit on the carpet. Greg smirked and continued to tie Sherlock's ankle to his thigh, rendering him totally unable to stretch his leg back out. He did the same to the other leg.

"Sit up," he ordered, helping the lanky man do so after a bit of difficulty. Greg proceeded to bind his chest and narrow waist in a sort of harness with another length of rope, weaving the lines in between each other, making sure to quadruple the strength under his pectorals and around each shoulder, under the armpit. The lines from his torso were looped through the lines around his upper thighs and were brought back together into a huge knot in the center of his back, a hook affixed to the center of the knot. He stood up. The next bit was going to require some heavy lifting.

John was standing on the bed now, linking a short chain to the center hook. Greg watched him carefully, as did Sherlock. The youngest man had been surprisingly quiet this whole time.

Once John was safely on the ground again, Greg bent and scooped up the lanky detective and deposited him on the bed on his stomach. His heels were resting on his arse now, with his legs bound, opening his tender bits to them helplessly. He writhed a bit, waiting under their combined scrutiny. John locked eyes with Sherlock, silently getting him to lie still as Greg pulled his arms back. Sherlock thought for one wild second that he was going to be bound with his arms back there, when instead he felt the cool metal of Greg's bloody  _handcuffs_  clicking over each wrist. God this was so much hotter, he thought, burying his face in the duvet.

But just then, another length of rope fell against his back. What the…? He turned his face to try and look back as Greg picked up his arms and brought the rope under them, wrapping it tightly around his elbows. The bones clinked together, and Sherlock groaned, his member throbbing into the duvet now. He twisted his hips a little, trying to gain purchase with his bound legs for some thrusting.

A hard smack brought his thighs close together with a smack, a shuddering gasp taking the room as his arse cheek burned. Greg was smiling. John had done that! Sherlock lifted his head and snarled at the doctor, earning his a backhand across the cheek. Another moan, this time caught by the mattress as he was scooted across it like a ragdoll. To be truthful, he was about as limp as one now, all tied up and useless. Greg came around the bed to help John get his harness hooked to the chain dangling from the ceiling. Once he was secured, Greg pushed the detective off the bed, his body bracing for impact and eyes flying wide when he actually realized how helpless and stuck he truly was. He kicked his legs a bit, but of course went nowhere. John was smiling at him evilly, that glint he only got when Sherlock was in trouble and he  _knew_  he wasn't walking out of this bedroom with a straight gait anytime this week. He whimpered, lowering his head to them both, begging for a bit of mercy.

Nope.

John came forward, placing a cool hand on Sherlock's reddened cheek. The younger man curled into it, almost purring from the gentle touch. Greg sat back and watched, letting the man's true Dom take over for a minute. He was only here to play, after all. And my, what a lovely game this was turning out to be.

He'd known about these two from the get go, unable to resist the way Sherlock looked at John when he was reprimanded, or stood close to him when he was getting a scolding, the averting of his eyes always a clear indicator. But everyone else only saw it as a way that Sherlock ignored John, or put his words off. Greg knew better. Sherlock adored John, the same way that the doctor did the little nutter he was living with. It was a match made in heaven, and they'd invited Greg along for a ride. Of course, Sherlock hadn't known that he was coming  _today_ , per se, but he did know that John had asked, and he'd given his consent enthusiastically.

Stepping back, John unbuckled the spider gag, letting the detective work his mouth open and shut for a minute as he tied a strip of black cloth over his eyes, snug so that he couldn't open them under it. Sherlock grimaced but quickly sucked in a breath as John ran a hand down his entire body, playing in the ropes supporting and suspending his lithe body in the center of the room. John settled back behind Sherlock, fingers toying with the plug that was still buried in his arse. There was a switch on it for vibration, and he tripped it, watching as Sherlock's body arced up and then down again in his ropes, a silent gasp taking hold in his chest.

"Well, I didn't know that it vibrated!" fussed Greg, slapping his thigh and scoffing. John smiled, reaching under Sherlock to palm his erection, letting the man feel his own pressed against his thigh, right next to the ropes. Sherlock whined, hands fisting behind his back. Lestrade came over and took the elbows, bringing them up and tying them to the chain as tight as he could, so that the limbs weren't in the way of anything when the actual penetration came into play.

"Gregory," John called his attention. The DI looked up before realizing that John was on his knees half-under Sherlock, toying with his erection. "Take his mouth. He loves to suck cock, don't you Sherlock?" the doctor purred, licking Sherlock's thigh teasingly. It elicited and yelp and a slight jump before he realized that such a move made the plug press against his prostate cruelly. He hummed an affirmative. John slapped his thigh, hard.

"You start using your words, Sherlock or I'll get the cane and beat some into you," he threatened, the army captain coming out in his voice.

"Yes, Captain," Sherlock whispered. "Yes, Detective Lestrade, sir I love to suck cock. May I taste yours? On the back of my throat?" he asked, innocently, licking that astonishing Cupid's bow.

Greg wrapped a hand around his long pale throat, picking the man up for a deep kiss, tongue violating his mouth and beating his own tongue into submission before he simply let him go, arms tightening in their ropes as he fell back into the hold of the harness. A gasp had wracked the room, the terror Sherlock felt as he thought he was going to land on his face, forgetting the ropes surrounding him. He relaxed into them again, feeling the plug being pulled out of his arse by John and gently pressed back in. he could feel short hairs on his thigh and knew that John was trying to distract him.

How do you play to two Doms at once?

"That would be Detective Inspector Lestrade, you needy little slag," he growled, yanking Sherlock's hair hard so that he swayed toward the DI in his bonds. The younger man yelped and struggled a bit, trying to find John again in the interim. The doctor caught his legs as he swayed back, grounding him. The dog tags clinked on his chest as momentum was rebalanced.

"Sorry, sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Please use me," he added in a whisper, opening his mouth and waiting. Greg sighed, unbuckling his belt and pushing his trousers down; he'd known he was coming here today and had left out the pants. Just as well anyway, there was no need for them. He looked up at John, asking silent permission from the resident Dom over his slave. John nodded, pulling the arse plug fully out of Sherlock and replacing it with two fingers. The man moaned wantonly, hips shifting up and down slightly in the ropes. Greg lurched forward, pressing the tip of his cock to Sherlock's lips.

Ah, here was the man he found strung out in an alley five years ago, choking on a cock with a baggie of coke in his back pocket. The professional fellator, folks. By  _Christ_  he could make a lot of money on the street if he'd had the mind to.

Sherlock nuzzled, lapping at the bead of precome on Greg's head before taking it into his mouth more fully. He worked his way down to the root, swirling his tongue impossibly the whole way down.

"God," he groaned, thrusting a bit into the younger man's mouth. His eyes trailed down the slim spine to where John was working, buried between Sherlock's arse cheeks. "Getting yourself a nice rim job there, are yeh?" he asked, rolling his eyes against the groan from Sherlock and tapping his finger against the younger man's cheek. "Nah-ah," he chided. "No biting or I will go get that cane pole."

Sherlock pressed his teeth in slow and gentle just at the base, teasing. Was Greg just as full of false promises as John was? Really, the doctor never  _beat_  him. Not like he wanted him to.

Greg pulled out of Sherlock's throat, leaving his mouth gaping into the open air. He froze, and felt John do the same against his back side. Sherlock writhed, pouting. The Di stalked to the closet, rummaging through the toys for a cane pole. He found one, fairly short and thin. Wispy. Perfect, he thought. He returned to the scene in the bedroom.

John had gone back to his rimming, wrenching a few choked noises out of his young lover in the process. Greg stood for a moment and watched, enraptured by the scene before him versus their role in society and in front of the other yarders. It was remarkable the difference. John was naturally a caretaker; he was a bloody doctor for Christ's sake. But the way he took care of Sherlock was so much more. He loved the wanker, which was evident. But Sherlock's reciprocity was what got him, every time. He was struck to the bone when he saw the detective hand John a cuppa or offered something up, like it was a piece of himself, even when it wasn't. Him being nice was like baring his soul; which is why he rarely did it. Greg walked forward, returning to the scene.

"John, you might want to move your face," Greg declared, whipping the cane through the air a few times to get the feel of it before he placed it still on Sherlock's spine. The man stilled, breathing hard as John stood, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Sherlock's toes curled in the ropes in anticipation.

Greg pressed his groin into Sherlock's face, just enough to where he knew it was there. "Now Sherlock, I'm going to hit you. Hard. But I'll continue to get harder. When you've had enough want you to snap. Understood?" Sherlock nodded, paling visibly. He licked his lips, Greg sticking his thumb in between them before he could clench his jaw. He pried Sherlock's mouth back open and pressed his bollocks to the opening, encouraging Sherlock to suck them into his mouth. He did, body quaking. He moaned a little, mostly out of anticipation. God, he could come from this alone, he thought.

"If you come, you'll be licking it up cold out of the carpet fibers when we're through," John reminded him. That was always his punishment for coming before he was allowed. He nodded once to show that he heard.

"This time, if you bite me, John and I will have a little bit of fun on the bed and leave you here alone for a good hour, understood?" Sherlock nodded, eyes huge. He hated being left alone, especially bound. He rolled Greg's bollock on his tongue playfully.

The cane moved. He tensed for the blow, but Lestrade only tapped it lightly against his skin. It still stung a bit, but not even as bad as the riding crop had. He relaxed a bit. The next few strokes were harder, blazing a fire under his skin where the cane passed. He winced, remembering to keep his mouth relaxed. He rolled the bollocks again, eyes fighting a bit under the blindfold. He could hear John breathing hard next to him, the slide of his rough hand over his cock, and he craved just a glimpse of the man, his love. John must have heard his prayers, he mused. The blindfold was torn off, and he saw John's hand retreating with it in tow as his eyes snapped to the older man. John's eyes were huge with lust, drinking in the information. Every blow that Greg landed made him wince but his cock throbbed with the movement. Sherlock was prepared to take a few more; that last one actually interrupted his thoughts it was so hard.

The next blow fell, followed quickly by another that actually felt like it split his skin open. He grunted, laving his tongue over Greg's bollocks again. Trying to drive him to distraction.

"Sherlock," John said in his warning tone. Both men looked at the doctor. He raised his eyebrows. "Don't go farther than you can, remember last time?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. He waited. One more, he thought in John's general direction. Greg hit him again, hardest of all. Sherlock's back buckled, arced up, his hand snapping his fingers hard several times.

The cane clattered to the floor and his mouth was vacated, only to be replaced by Greg's cock. He was used violently, gagging on the DI's cock as drool ran down his chin and dribbled onto the floor. God he loved it. He opened his eyes and looked at John, seeing the doctor's possessive glint in his eyes. He stood, walking back behind the suspended detective running a flat hand down his flank. Greg pulled out for a second to give Sherlock room to breathe.

"God, yes John please," he begged, writhing in his bonds. John spanked him, hard, right over the worst of the cane lines. He yelped, biting his lower lip.

"Gah, Captain," he breathed, opening his mouth blindly again for the DI. Greg hesitated, waiting for John.

"A-frame?" he prompted. Greg smirked. "We can switch out for the next round, yeah?" John sank into Sherlock to the hilt in one move. He wasn't very long, but think. True to his stature. Greg on the other hand was quite long, like Sherlock. Good for him that the consulting detective had a nice long throat to fuck. Once John was seated and started to move, taking the wince off Sherlock's face, Greg took his mouth again. They used him with wanton abandon, thrusting and taking everything they could from the lucky detective strung up between them. He moaned, groaned, wailed and made every animalistic sound his throat could manage around Greg's cock, feeling the bruises form around John's fingertips in his skin and the prickling of his scalp as Greg tugged on his hair to drive deeper. It only made him want  _more_. He told them as much, thrusting back on John when he could, canting his hips up for deeper penetration, laving his tongue out over Greg's balls when he stayed still in his throat before the draw out. He pulled all the tricks, pushing the both of them harder. The dog tags clinked on his chest and bounced back off Greg's thigh as he was swung back and forth between the two men.

When John wrapped his slicked hand around his cock, it was all over. He was whimpering before the first stroke was finished, begging for permission. Greg came first, spurting hot and thick down Sherlock's throat. He caught it all, swallowing on instinct before he realized that he didn't know if Greg was fully clean of not. He supposed that John would have asked first before he let Greg play with his toy. He was a possessive little doctor. He remained in Sherlock's mouth until he grew soft, at which point John was whispering for Sherlock to let go. Lestrade crawled down under Sherlock's hanging body, taking the younger man in his mouth and sucking back. John continued to work him into Greg's mouth, unrelenting.

"Come on, sweetheart. Come for us," he growled, digging his fingers into the welt from Lestrade's hit form the riding crop. It set Sherlock over the edge, coming hard and shooting his load into Greg's waiting mouth. The DI closed his lips, crawling back up to stand on his knees in front of Sherlock without having swallowed. He pressed his lips to the younger man's making him open them and cum-swapped, relishing in the way the younger man licked his own seed out of the DI's mouth. He moaned at the gesture, making John's breath quicken and stutter behind him. He was getting sore; worn out. John must have sensed it because he paused and came with a shout, gripping Sherlock's abused cheeks in a spreading death grip as he stared at the way his thick cock was engulfed in his partner.

"God, have mercy," he murmured, thrusting gently in and out a few times before withdrawing and walking to collapse on the bed next to where Greg now sat.

"God, we have to do that again sometime," Greg mused. Sherlock coughed quietly from where he still hung, apparently eager to be let down now. Greg stood and untied his elbows from the chain, lifted him up and had John unhook the harness from the end of the chain, setting him back on the bed to be untied. Lestrade started on the wrists when John stilled his hands. Both he and Sherlock looked at him, confused.

"Who said we were done yet? I said round two earlier, remember?" Greg swallowed, looking down at Sherlock. He was slack, head laying on its side on the duvet, eyes barely open, breathing slow and measured. In all, he didn't look like he much cared what they did to him anymore, as long as it got him doted upon.

Sherlock sighed, turning to face the other two men a bit better. He acquiesced in a rumbling baritone, "Let us begin."


	2. Omega!Sherlock 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> explicit alpha/omega sex, bottom Sherlock. 'Cuz i prefer to see him catching.

**i'm turning this story into a smut universe now, so if you have specific themes or prompts that you'd like to see, for the love of Benedict please comment them or PM me if you're shy about it (god knows why you're here if you're shy, btw) here we go!**

Omega verse

Omega!sherlock: jsut some notes. everyone does Omegaverse differently, and i've never wtritten it before but i have recently become a fan, so here you go.

Guidelines of my verse: physically based social order; not were-related. Omegas have heats similar to animals, etas can be mated to Alphas and in certain breeding cases can become omegas if bred well. Male omega highly prized, hard to come by/rare commodities, usually sold on black market. Mycroft keeps Sherlock safe from this, that's why he's so particular when John moves in. omegas have inherent need to care for and make home for Alphas, but Sherlock ignores this tendency, but rather likes it when John makes nests for him to hide in his room during heats. Suppressants work like birth control; suppress ability to conceive but not to reduce effects of heat entirely. Can't be truly mated on suppressants, but desire relief with an Alpha. Beta network of poor-bred betas can be hired to mate with omegas or Alphas alike to reduce issues related to rutting or heats. Alphas only achieve true rut when in vicinity of their courted or claimed omega in heat/caused by familiar pheromones of a desired one. Rut can also be activated by a lot of omega blood or body fluids in an area, hence the need to have beta police workers. When an Alpha chooses their mate (up to them, especially males) they will try to mate and form the bond quickly, often without preparation, but the omega will strive to fight off even a chosen Alpha—they require almost to be taken by force. Knotting will occur even if the omega is on suppressants, but pregnancy will not occur unless the omega goes off their pills a month before their next heat (after their previous one ended—requires 1 month to get out of endocrine system). because of their lack of sperm in the seminal fluid, omega semen is clear and purely body fluid (mostly water and mucus if you took biology like, ever) because they have lady bits inside and therefore have eggs not sperm.

**Let's Do This**

* * *

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the flat, hands on his narrow hips, staring at the "case wall" with the most petulant look he could muster hitched across his features. He sniffed lazily at the air when he heard the street door snap shut, the scent of his  _friend_  and the rustling of plastic bags greeting him just before John's crop of dusty blonde hair came over the landing. John had just come in with groceries and moved across the flat to busy himself with putting them in their respective cabinets, mulling over the details of the case (well, the facts that he knew about) as he did so, his back turned to the detective.

Once done, the doctor came into the parlor and leaned against the door frame of the kitchen, his weight on his right hip, left shoulder on the wood.

"Come up with any theories?" he asked, not really looking at the papers pinned to the wall above the fireplace. Sherlock shifted his weight, half turning back to face John.

"Hmm," he grunted, sinking into his grey chair. "Three," he commented, pale eyes shifting back up to the wall before settling on the dusty coals from their last good fire three months ago. They'd been having a good heat swell in the city lately, and the fire wasn't needed to keep up the temperature in the old flat.

"Care to take me through them, then?" John asked, sinking into his own red chair. Sherlock had picked up the flat a bit. His heat must be coming soon; he never did anything domestic unless he was starting to nest a bit in the few days before his heat. Poor sod didn't even usually catch himself doing it. Sherlock pulled a face and squirmed a bit. God, John could smell him from here, the hormones rising and falling in little obnoxious crests that made him get a boner only to have it ignored by the virginal idiot in front of him. He shifted in his chair, hoping for a distraction, and soon. If Sherlock planned to make him wait out another heat then he'd surely go mad…where was the number to that nice beta agency? Hmmm…. Maybe he'd get a male again this time; it was quite nice last time. Although the fact that Sherlock stopped talking to him for a solid two weeks after his heat didn't really make up for it.

"I need to go back out to the scene," Sherlock mentioned, uncrossing his long legs and getting up. "Coming?" he asked, standing over John impatiently. The army vet rubbed his eyes and nodded, getting up and throwing on his shooting jacket, following the eccentric detective out the door.

* * *

John stood at the edge of the crime scene, as per usual, belly brushing the crime scene tape while his flat mate stooped over a body and grimaced at it. He was having trouble concentrating, John could tell. The good doctor threw a conciliatory glare over his shoulder, scanning the area for another Alpha beside himself. He didn't scent any, but his hackles rose as a soft breeze came down the alley, bringing Sherlock's scent with it. Intoxicating. He steeled his muscles and went back to watching Sherlock at work. Luckily, as a general rule, all homicide beat workers had to be betas, to reduce the issues related to blood being all over a scene, possibly sending an Alpha into a temporary rut (which could often turn murderous in its own right if there wasn't a mate or someone to quell their lust quickly enough). John breathed a sigh of relief for not the first time when this realization hit, knowing that he wouldn't have to be fending Lestrade off Sherlock in the next day or two. Regardless, Lestrade and everyone else already regarded John as having a claim on Sherlock, [and he sort of  _did_ ] so they wouldn't have tried much even if they were Alphas. Now, the regular police workers were a different story. They were generally Alphas, being pushy and full of too much testosterone on a general basis.

John sniffed the air tentatively. Sherlock wasn't necessarily safe at home with him, either, but his suppressants helped John  _kind_   _of_  ignore the smell of the heat, what with the artificial pheromones that it put forth from the younger man when he was locked in his room for three to five days a month. He caught a familiar scent and felt a faint stir in his blood.

"Sherlock," he called. The younger man cocked a look over his shoulder at John, mouth open as if about to say something snarky, when he instead caught the trace of worry on his doctor's features.

Sherlock growled quietly and stood, walking out onto the main street with a snap of blue latex gloves coming off. Lestrade scrambled to keep up with his long legs, meeting John at the scene tape and following Sherlock under it.

"It was not the father, as you have so eloquently tried to tell me. Try the brother, see if he has a car of his own, and dark hair. He was a beta, the brother. Unmated." Lestrade nodded and scented the younger man, catching John's knowing eye. Together they walked Sherlock out to the curb and into a waiting omega cab. Mycroft must have known it was coming on, then. John rolled his eyes but shoved Sherlock into the back seat and walked around the black car.

Sherlock grumbled, but settled into the seat and glared at John as he slid into the filtered front half of the car next to the cabbie. He gave the driver the address for Baker Street and they took off.

The cabbie pulled up alongside the curb of 221 to let them out, refusing the money that John pulled from his wallet. Mycroft had been keeping an eye out, indeed. John rolled his eyes, slipped the man five quid and stomped round the car to let Sherlock out. The doors were locked from the inside by the driver for protection purposes, so he had to wait for the air locks to let out from the cabbie's trigger on his steering wheel.

Once the door clicked, Sherlock pushed at the door, ready to get a shower. He hated the slick feeling that came with his heat, more so than the worrying glances from his friends or the generally useless way his brain worked when he got into full swing. More than once he'd clawed at the door weakly, his lean omega muscles doing nothing against the reinforced steel, begging for John to help him break it down and come help him, to fuck him, to slake his—no, _both_  of their needs, but the doctor had an iron will it seemed, and would not give in.

It's not that he didn't  _want_  Sherlock; God, no, that was not the case! He simply wouldn't let their first time be due to raging hormones and desperate need. He wanted Sherlock to  _want_   _him_  outside of a heat, and that was where the trickiness lay.

Once safely inside, Sherlock went into his room and took a shower, listening to John mill around outside in the main part of the flat. He could tell that John was trying to not bust in the door and take him—he'd growled menacingly at a few men who'd caught Sherlock's scent as the younger man was unlocking the door, and it made Sherlock weak in the knees to hear the sound ripped from John's compact chest. It hadn't entirely been ineffective for John, either. The older man was still throwing his pheromones all over the flat, stinking up the place. Sherlock trembled under the hot spray, half wishing that he would.

Thus their living arrangement was ideal in every way but one. But…the issue had grown stronger between them that Sherlock, for all intents and purposes, was completely open to John mating him.

They'd only had the conversation once. Sherlock remembered it now as his mind's eye followed John's echoing footsteps through the parlor, himself being locked securely in his room's separate bathroom at the moment. He was safe for now, but if John got a good enough whiff once his full heat set in, no door in the house could keep them separated. He'd not even fight it, not any more than his body would naturally. He wanted John, so badly.

The conversation did not go well.

_"John, please! It would be perfect and you know it!" Sherlock pleaded, in his most diabolically childish voice. He was all but begging for the doctor to mate him, on his knees before the red chair and everything. He'd even lost his blue robe, letting John see his slim figure draped in baggy joggers and an old ratty tee-shirt, the neck stretched so that it dangled over one bony shoulder. He knew that he looked positively edible like this, and John was dragging his eyes over every inch of exposed skin like he wasted to_ taste _it. "It would be perfect! We already live together, you're not all that actively trying to find a mate anymore, not since Mary left! We could share my heat and then just continue our work relationship as normal! It would be that simple, John, really!"_

_"No Sherlock! I refuse to be with you if you only want me for my COCK during your bloody HEATS! End of discussion!" he'd brushed past angrily, but not before Sherlock caught the look in his eye of desperate_ want _._

It was only a matter of time.

Maybe he should make noises? Ooohh… go get his toys, roll around on the floor like a fool and make John break that door in two. God, how he'd love to see it, the growl he imagined shooting sparks up his forearms. The detective reached down behind him, running the side of his hand down his crevice, letting the hot water drive away the slick lubricant gathering there. It smelled faintly musky, heady, like a beacon for sex. It even made Sherlock's cock ache, and it was his own scent! Imagine what it would do to John in full impact…he would go immediately into a rut.

They'd been living together for five years now, and through them all, through each and every heat, John had kept his distance, burying his need in his women conquests or the occasional hired beta prostitute when Sherlock's heat was stinking up the flat and he was single. It was pathetic, a weak attempt to stay away, but he went into a mild rut every time he got the warning scent from his flat mate. Last month had been trying for them both. That was when Sherlock had  _begged_ , and when John had turned his needs in for a male prostitute from the Adler brothel in SoHo. He still felt his blood boil at the thought, watching that brunette, skinny-arsed man strut out of their flat like he owned the place, reeking of John's pheromones and bath soaps. It had hurt more than he'd let on [and he'd let on quite a lot if the broken furniture laying down by Mrs. Hudson's bins was anything to go by. The only things to make it out unscathed were their two chairs and the kitchen table with all his experiments.]

On the other hand, it was lucky for Sherlock because now he constantly smelled like John, and although the claim-bite wasn't on his neck for all to see, most other Alphas kept their distance, not that he ever really left Baker Street alone anyway.

A sudden thought hit him, as he quietly cleaned himself up and shut the water off. He wasn't in full heat yet; John's argument for him not wanting the doctor outside of a heat wouldn't hold if he tried right now. But he'd have to be quick about it; by tonight he'd be too far gone and John would shove him behind that door to wait it out.

He dropped the towel to the ground and hid a wet washcloth on the bedside table for future use as he padded to the hall door, peeking out at his doctor.

"Sherlock, wha—" John grunted as a lapful of consulting detective squirmed his way onto the red chair with him.

"Hush, John. I'm making a point, while I still have time."

"And what would that be?" John asked, trying to breathe in through his mouth, although truth be told it made it a bit worse because then he could taste Sherlock's heady scent on his tongue. It just sat there, thick and moist, tantalizing him.

"I do want you outside of a heat. Every day I look forward to what stupid thing you'll say or do next, and how it will affect me. To think anything otherwise, or that I would not want you here except when I am in heat is the epitome of idiocy, John Watson. I need you to know now, before I start talking and babbling like an idiot and torturing you from the other side of that door, because you know I will and I won't feel the least bit sorry for it. I want you in there with me." John opened his mouth to speak, to make an argument, although he didn't for the life of him whether he was going to deny Sherlock or not right now. Sherlock put gentle fingers on his lips, urging him to stay quiet and hear him out. "I'm on suppressants, I cannot get pregnant, and it truly would be better for both of us, John. You know it, I  _know_  you do! I can see it in your face that you'd never let anyone else have me! And to think that  _I've_  sat here contemplating the fact that I'd let you mark and mate me should be good enough cause for you to do exactly that. I want  _you_ , and no one else. I've never wanted or even entertained the thought of letting anyone else… _you_   _know_. So please, come with me this time and make sure you don't have to fight off any more Alphas, ever again?" Sherlock squirmed uncomfortably on John's lap then, getting wet again. His hormones certainly were making it easier for him to spill his black heart out to the doctor, but it didn't make him blush any less.

For a solid three minutes, John sat motionless and stupefied under Sherlock's weight, hands resting noncommittally on the slender man's hips. Thinking, Sherlock deduced. Hoped. He was turning into such a girl, ugh! Maybe he should…hmm. Sherlock pitched forward a bit, nuzzling tentatively at John's neck while the older man sat stock still, waiting him out. Sherlock scented him, licking and nipping at his jugular lightly before sure hands tightened on his hip bones, hard enough to bruise. He sat back and looked at John's face, his own lowered slightly to show his capitulation.

Maybe he should present himself? John was pretty dominant, Alpha tendencies aside. He would probably appreciate it. Sherlock crawled backward off of the chair and John's lap, keeping his hand clasped tight in his own and tugged lightly. John hesitated, but ultimately stood up and followed Sherlock in to his room. The omega sank down onto the bed on his hands and knees, arse turned to face John as he slunk out of his tee shirt and stood there on his slender thighs in only a pair of black briefs. John's mouth watered, but he remained where he stood a few feet away. Still able to turn tail and run for the door if he needed to.

And good lord, he hoped that didn't have to happen.

"John," Sherlock called, voice softer than John had ever heard it. His eyes snapped to the omega, who was changing tactic, sinking down onto his back on the plush bed, baring his neck invitingly. John took a step forward, unwittingly. "I want you, please," Sherlock invited, curling his fingers back at the helpless doctor as he advanced a bit more, thighs brushing the side of the bed.

"Sherlock, this…" He motioned between them with a hand. "You had better be serious about it. If I bond with you and you reject it…" John pulled a face, remembering the pain that had occurred when Mary left him. It was an impossibly hollow feeling, literally like the other half of your soul was torn away, leaving you un-whole. Only another true mate could heal such a tear, but only a true one. More than two mate-fractures could be fatal.

"John I am aware of the implications, and I am asking you to reject your rather pathetic arguments as to why it would not be good and just go with it. For both our sakes!" the detective had sat up on the bed now, huffing his frustration out on the hapless Alpha. John capitulated with a groan, crawling up onto the bed with Sherlock and pinning him with ease. He moved to bite into the soft flesh of Sherlock's neck, but was resolutely bucked off.

Here came the mating fight.  _Just like tigers,_  John thought to himself as he started fighting back against Sherlock's attempt to wriggle away.

As a last-ditch effort to save their virginity, during a first heat with a new mate an omega will work to fight off the new mate, even if it is a chosen, viable and perfectly consensual pairing. It was a kind of way to preserve their only real possession. Sherlock was making quick and immediate work of this natural instinct, kicking and screaming as he thrashed against John. He had literally just begged John [once again] to come get in his bed and mate with him, and this was how he was rewarding the capitulating doctor.

John was not delusional, he knew that the only way he was getting inside Sherlock at this rate was if he managed to pin the quick little blighter and make it rough the first time. The next several rounds would be much calmer; Sherlock would not fight him off for the rest of this shared heat. John managed to grab each wrist and pin them to either side of Sherlock's head, the younger man now flopped onto his stomach with his thighs clamped together as tight as he could manage. John needed to bite and mark him, and soon, or he'd lose the privilege. If he didn't show himself worthy of the omega's virginity, he'd never get another chance.

With a squirming naked torso beneath his chest, John reared up, sitting on Sherlock's arse as he straddled it. He leant down and clamped his teeth around the meat of Sherlock's shoulder where it met his neck—the lats—biting until he tasted blood. The younger man gasped and stilled, going pliant in every way except his thighs, which remained firmly shut to any intrusion. John was able to free his wrists, trailing his hands roughly over Sherlock's pale skin until he reached his pants. His teeth were still sunk into flesh, so he backed off a bit, tongue laving over the worst of the bite as he released the claim-mark and moved up to mark another spot further up Sherlock's neck, for all to see, above his scarf-line. This time he bit more gently, nursing a hickey onto the pale skin as his fingers made quick work of sliding Sherlock's briefs down under his arse. John ran two fingers down his slit, making the omega buck into the mattress when he brushed over his hole. He was wet, desperate for it, even though his heat hadn't fully come on yet. They still had time before John could even  _actually_  mate him. If they had sex now it wouldn't matter, not in the way of claiming. He needed to draw this out a bit longer. Maybe half an hour, before Sherlock's heat would really set in and the hormones necessary for him to be fully bonded would be a-flowing.

So John backed off a bit, still working his fingers up and down Sherlock's wet perineum, making the younger man writhe on the duvet, his thighs loosening their tension. He had slipped back to sit on Sherlock's lower thighs now, to give himself access. He still was fully clothed, now that he thought about it. So John clambered up off the bed and stood next to it, watching Sherlock intently as he undressed himself.

"Sherlock," he called, waiting for a face to turn his way as he shucked his jumper and trousers, standing there patiently in his undershirt and pants, one sock halfway off and the other on the floor. "Sherlock," he said more firmly. The man looked at him, lust blowing his pupils out so they almost took over his pale irises. John hastily threw off the rest of his clothes, eager to get back into bed. "Get on your back," he growled, crawling back onto the bed and pulling the duvet out from underneath the omega's knees. When Sherlock failed to meet his request, he simply pushed him over, knowing all too well that male omegas, rare as they were, generally refused to mate this way. With Sherlock's lack of social tact and his tendency toward extreme shyness in regards to sex, John was sure that this would be another struggle, but they had time to waste. The heat was coming on fast, John could smell it under Sherlock's skin, emanating from his scent glands and slicking up his entrance. Maybe another half hour or so to go; less time than he'd originally anticipated. He crawled up to where Sherlock lay, unhappily on his back and refusing to meet John's eyes, and attempted to slide a hand between his legs.

When that didn't work, he tugged his hand back out of the clamp that Sherlock had created and leaned down, pressing firm but tender kisses to his neck, the unbitten side, and down. He left a wet trail of hot touches over the jutting collar bones, tongue laving over each nipple until it pebbled in between his lips. John sat back a bit and blew on the sensitive nubs, getting a surprised gasp out of his mate. Sherlock had turned his head to watch now, enraptured by the sensations that John was wringing out of his body as the minutes stretched on toward his full heat letting loose in his blood stream. It made his mouth water, the idea that John would finally mate him; what it would feel like, to belong, to be owned so that he never got strange looks again, and would never be pressured to find a suitable mate again by his stupid brother. It was a heady thought, and it alone was enough to get him excited. His thighs were still kind of stuck together though…

"Sherlock, relax. You asked me for this," he chided, settling down so that Sherlock's bum rested on his thighs and the younger man's own thighs were tilted up into his chest. He lay there rather nicely, hands out to his sides, otherwise being perfectly compliant. He did relax a little when John started stroking his perineum again, sliding back to tease his hole open a bit and relaxing his posture. "There we go, no need for it to hurt the first time, yeah? I don't want to hurt you, but you need to relax. You'll be kicking off soon and I won't be able to stop." For the first time, he got a real reaction.

"'m not doing it on purpose, John, you know that," Sherlock mumbled, burying his face deeper into the pillows near his head. He did relax a bit, though, and whined a little as John sank in a finger, testing the waters. It wasn't long before John had three fingers deep in Sherlock's arse and had his pale thighs stretched across the bed to either side of his hips. The younger man was throwing his head around, gasping every time John curled his fingers just right and hit that sweet spot, circling his prostate delicately before pressing two fingers to the center.

When he felt an orgasm shudder through the omega, he smelled it finally; it came with the clear semen spread out across the milky expanse of Sherlock's belly. That last gush of pre-heat moisture bringing with it the pheromones that beckoned to the Alpha in the room so sweetly. John felt his eyes glaze over, that special kind of haze setting in where it all turned animalistic and violent and  _sweet_. He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the wet washcloth that Sherlock had put there, cleaning up his new mate's mess before letting his baser urges take over.

"Should I shut the door? Mrs. Hudson..." he trailed off, deciding that it would probably be better that way. No need for the poor old woman to come in on them. Like ever.

John closed the door and made it back to the bed a breakneck speed, before Sherlock could roll onto his stomach and present again, although he did start up a new struggle, barely sated by his untouched orgasm minutes before. John growled menacingly, telling Sherlock to stay put, and the omega went limp, doing exactly as told.

Well then. John rather liked that bit!

The good doctor settled between Sherlock's thighs, lining himself up before he leaned down and re-opened the partially-healed claim he'd scored into Sherlock's throat. When the skin broke for the second time, Sherlock gasped, wrapping his long limbs around John's arse like an octopus and dragging him in. John sank into his heat fairly easily, with a bit of resistance toward the end as to be expected. The slickness took him a bit by surprise. He licked at the blood, chasing a bead down his mate's pale neck as he thrust home, relishing in the way the younger man's back arched up, pressing their chests together.

This first mating would be brutal, savage, and animalistic. John withdrew, letting Sherlock fight to flip onto his belly like he clearly preferred to. It would make it easier, this first time. As soon as he had his center of gravity restored and was sitting on the back of Sherlock's thighs, John grabbed his hips and thrust in roughly, taking himself to the root immediately. Sherlock screamed, biting into the corner of his pillow as the rush of pain took him, quickly dissipated by the flood of endorphins. For the most part, John ignored him, grunting out his pleasure as he slammed into Sherlock's accepting body over and over again, seeking out his quick release before they could get on with the real show, the part he loved best. The slow build, ending in explosive orgasm for them both.

He felt Sherlock clenching around him then as the younger man drove himself humping into the bedclothes, starting to crash over another wave of orgasm as John crested his own. The doctor pulled Sherlock up by his bony hips to stand on his knees as his knot expanded, pressing into Sherlock after a moment's resistance. The taller man stilled, a low wail permeating the silence as he was stretched that much more by the organ. It locked John into place, only allowing for minimal, shallow thrusts until he came, throwing his head back as Sherlock gasped, feeling the hot wetness of it sealed inside him, seeking out an egg that would never be released from his female organs.

They stayed on their knees for a few moments, until John's second crest hit, and they fell to their sides, breathing heavily. Sherlock had just finished his first mating, with his best friend. A strange sort of inevitability washed over him, like they knew that this was how it was going to end, five years ago in St Bart's Lab when John offered up his mobile. He squirmed, testing the looseness of John's knot, only to wince when it didn't give him more than half an inch to get away. John snorted into his hair, pulling the younger man close against his chest and pinning him there with arms of steel wrapped round his chest like cables.

"It will take a bit to deflate, Sherlock. You just have to wait it out." He sighed, nestling his face into the back of his omega's neck. He tried to stifle a laugh when Sherlock crossed his arms, pouting.

"I don't want to wait, John I want more," he wriggled his arse back against John's hips, tying to impale himself a bit deeper, seeking out another orgasm. He was officially in heat, John decided.

"Well, the more you try to get away or move, the longer it's going to stay put. You're not going anywhere so just, I don't know…take a nap or something?" Sherlock scoffed, apparently getting a bit of what he wanted in his shallow thrusting back onto John's thick member. After a few minutes, John let his hands wander over the detective's slender frame, drinking in the information as his eyes stayed shut, willing his knot to deflate despite Sherlock blatantly ignoring his advice to remain still. He reached down and wrapped a sure hand around the younger man's slender erection, tugging up the length a few times until Sherlock stilled. His breath hitched when John twisted his wrist at the tip, teasing him horribly.

John nosed his way through Sherlock's curls until his mouth met the younger man's ear. "You know what I'm going to do when my knot deflates, Sherlock?" the detective whimpered, thrusting back gently and forward again into John's fist. He shook his head minutely. The doctor smiled. "I'm going to flip you onto your back and take you in my mouth and suck you dry, then take you long and slow, make you scream my name for an hour before you're allowed another orgasm." Sherlock trembled, nodding imperceptibly.

"Please, John!" he whined, unable to take it.

Half an hour later he'd done just that; flipped Sherlock onto his back, mouthing him until the younger man came explosively around John's fingers and in his mouth. John suckled the tip, dredging the last few drops of clear fluid out of Sherlock's bollocks before he crawled forward on his knees and sank into him again without preamble. This time he laid on Sherlock's front, keeping him there while he rocked in and out, slow and sure in a steady measure that left no room for embarrassment.

The detective still tried to wriggle away a few times, mostly just to hide his face from John's scrutiny, but also a bit just to see if John would actually drag him back. Which he did. Numerous times throughout the night. And the night after….

And the night after that.

 


	3. Whipping Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SherStrade. i like seeing him getting beaten, too. so here you go! pain-slut sherlock and lestrade go at it.

today I feel like whipping the shit out of Sherlock and making him beg. You with me? Good. Here we go.

Sherstrade ahead, lots of pain, binding, dub-con (but it's totally con) and orgasm delay/denial. Dom Greg, sub Sherlock (duh). Let's see what the DI can do.

* * *

**Whipping Boy:**

John sat in his chair silently, eyes following Sherlock around the flat as the eccentric man paced, growled, grumbled, tore at his hair, threw his jacket across the room, kicked a stack of magazines, and finally stomped into his room. He'd been having a hard time lately, god knows why, but he was not exactly inclined to tell the good doctor about it. So the good doctor simply sat, and waited. If the imbecile wanted to tell him what was wrong, he could. Or he could disappear, which t now looked like he was doing.

"Oi, where are you headed?" John called, craning his neck to watch Sherlock fish his shoe out from under the sofa where it had been thrust in a fit earlier. The detective smashed his foot into the leather and got up, swishing his Belstaff around his calves and trying the scarf a bit too tight as he fingered his mobile. He seemed to be contemplating something. Surprise.

"Out. I will be late, don't worry." Sherlock sounded oddly calm for how he was carrying on, and John made a face as he fetched a few of those scattered magazines, straightening the pile again before turning on the telly to relax. The flat was quiet after the final door slam that signaled Sherlock's departure. The doctor rolled his eyes and thought about going to see if he could coax a lady home.

The firm implantation of his arse in his red chair followed by a warm cuppa on his belly told him to stay put, and he did.

oOo

 _Knock knock knock_. Lestrade had  _just_  managed to get home and kick his shoes off, and there went his door, now ringing madly. If it was that stupid sociopath again…he headed for the door and paused as the form behind the frosted glass made his blood boil. Sherlock had been a right prat lately, to the point where Lestrade actually hauled him of a scene and into a cab before he could punch him in the face a few times. He would have deserved it. Something was off, and Greg desperately wanted John to figure it out, but he didn't think that the good doctor was getting the same treatment at home that Greg had been getting on a scene.

Sherlock's usual penchant for making everyone hate him was getting worse by the day, and now Greg himself was having a hard time even looking at him. Since he'd gotten back, ever since that Reichenbach case he was…well he was ruder, more hostile. Different. Like he expected something but wasn't willing to tell anyone what it was.

"Lestrade, I can see you standing in the hall. Open the door." Greg rolled his eyes and made his way forward, glaring at the younger man for interrupting his time off.

"What Sherlock? Look I don't have any cases here. You'll have to wai—" he was cut off.

"I do not want a case, Greg I am here to see you for a different matter." The taller man shouldered into the dingy little flat, eyes cast anywhere but at the DI as he stood there with his hand still on the knob, incredulous. "Do you remember our deal so many years ago?" Sherlock was practically whispering now. Greg's mind reeled.

"Sherlock—" he began, getting interrupted again.

"I don't want to hear why we stopped or why we shouldn't start up again, Greg. You have nothing going right now and I need it.  _God_ , I need it so bad, I'm sure I've scared John away for good this time, I've been so irate. When he marries Mary it will be over, I won't be able to function. I  _need_  the distraction, Lestrade, please. I will beg…again…if you make me." Those pale eyes were locked on his own, pleading. Greg could see that saying no was not going to end well. He shifted his weight and thought for a second.

He had known Sherlock for a very long time. When he finally got the man off the drugs so many years ago…what was it, nearing ten now? No, closer to seven. Regardless, it had been his unwavering hand and the blows it delivered to Sherlock's pale skin that had made him listen, got him to quit the drugs and get straight again. And ever since they'd stopped he'd been feeding Sherlock cases and then helping John maintain the crazed idiot. When he'd disappeared, it had all gone to hell. John got depressed, Greg never stopped searching…and then John found Mary, and left Greg alone to deal with the worry. He'd gotten over it, while Greg never really had. And yet here the git was, begging to be beaten.

"Just one more time?" Greg asked. His own voice sounded strange. It was his body telling him that he didn't want to stop this time, even if Sherlock needed him to. It wouldn't stop, and he knew it. Sherlock opened his mouth but Greg interrupted. "No." He closed it again, looking startled. "If we do this again, it ends on my terms, and you have no safe word. I know what you can handle, and you deserve every drop of blood you lose because of this hell you continually put  _all_  of us though, but most of all  _me_. We do  _not_   _stop_ this time. If you need me to, I will move in when John leaves. But I can't get that far sunk in again with all this shit just for you to get  _bored_ , or to get a new flat mate that will distract you." He looked hard at the younger man and expected the rebuttal.

"But,  _John_ ," Sherlock breathed, eyes getting a bit panicky.

"He'll accept that we're in a relationship and you know it. He doesn't need to know for a while. Just when he's gone and you're out more often. Then we'll tell him. Good?" Sherlock nodded, a bit dazed. He hadn't expected Lestrade to cave at all, let alone so easily. But he'd always been the only one to see Sherlock actually be weak, and so he had taken this begging transport system to him with the offer and the desperation. Luckily enough for him, Greg was just as desperate.

"Are we starting now?" the DI asked, taking a step back and looking at Sherlock a bit more focusedly. The younger man nodded, just once, and rather weakly. Oh, how he cowed in one-on-one interaction. Greg just ate it up. "Then strip and go kneel by my chair, pet. I've got some picking up to do." Sherlock strode across the flat, leaving his coat and suit jacket in a pile by the door. "Oi," Greg called. His boy froze mid-step, fingers on his shirt buttons. "I said I had to pick up, why would you think that  _you_  can leave a mess behind you? Hang those up and fold your clothes in a neat pile on the sofa, slut," Greg pointed to the coat and Sherlock stooped to get it, trembling slightly with anticipation and the fight to get his brain to deteriorate into sub-space so that this could work. He hung the coat and jacket on a peg, along with his scarf, and went back toward the living room, doing as he was asked.

It was like they'd never stopped, picking right back up to the old dynamic from seven years ago. As he finished his shirt and folded it neatly, hands drifting to work on is trousers, Sherlock looked up to see Greg leaning on the doorframe, watching intently. He'd always loved that perfect, marble skin. Seeing it slowly exposed after being covered up by wool and polyester for so long made his mouth water. Once naked, Sherlock kneeled with his hands on his thighs, flat like he was used to doing, back straight as a board and ready for orders. Greg marched forward and ran a hand through the younger man's hair, mussing it lightly and letting out a noise of approval for the longer texture. It had been much shorter when Sherlock had been more unpredictable, mostly because clipping it messily himself had been cheaper than the barber's and that was money he could use on drugs. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited.

The DI stopped and Sherlock felt the cool twist of leather around his long neck. It was his old collar, he could feel the familiar texture sliding over his skin, worn to the point of overuse in the past by the two of them taking things more seriously than they probably should have. The tag that dangled in front had Greg's name and address on it. He was still in the flat they'd started this in originally. The divorce proceedings had just begun when Sherlock had ramp[aged into his life earlier, and he'd be lying if at times it felt like he was taking out his frustration on the younger man, when he had lines of blood on his back and an arse so sore he could barely take a shower for want of the water touching his skin.

But it was all worth it, and what's more, Sherlock only ever begged to be beaten raw; he loved it more than anything. To get in that sub-space, to not have to think about  _anything_ … with a mind like his, that was an incredible feat. And only Greg had that kind of hold over him.

So Sherlock sat silently, fingers twitching every now and then out of boredom as he watched Greg tidy up his little flat a bit, stuffing coats into the closet, wiping down tables, putting dishes in the dishwasher…picking up beer cans. It was all so mundane, but he couldn't stop watching, because he was here. He'd succeeded, and soon, the fun would begin.

Forgetting himself (maybe a little on purpose) Sherlock rolled his shoulders a bit and yawned, making a low noise of frustrated boredom about half an hour after the clean-up started. This…this was what Greg was waiting for. He had never been able to beat Sherlock for no reason, and now at least he had one.

"Oh, sorry am I boring you, sir?" Greg asked, plating his hands on his hips and coming to stand directly in front of Sherlock. The younger man knew enough to keep his eyes on Greg's feet at least. He'd taken his shoes off and one tiny hold gave the detective a little peek of skin on the tip of Greg's second toe. He focused on it. Greg fisted a hand in his hair and pulled his face back. "Well?"

"No—no sir," Sherlock managed, trying in vain to avoid Greg's eyes. "I'm just—"

"You were just trying to provoke me." Lestrade spat. Sherlock flinched, forcing his hands to remain where they were. "Well, good job. Now I'm angry," Greg dragged Sherlock by his hair and collar, a hand fisted in each, into the bedroom a few feet away. There was a good ceiling hook in there; he'd need it soon. Sherlock whimpered when he was finally let go on the carpet, one hip and his knees red already from the carpet burn of being dragged over the low-pile. "Get on your feet," Lestrade growled, moving over to the closet slowly. Sherlock did as he was told, crossing his arms in front of him. His cock was already throbbing with interest as he watched Greg root around in the darkened space for a moment before flicking on the overhead light and coming forward with a length of rope, a gag, an anal hook with a bulb on the end the size of a Ping-Pong ball, and a flogger.

Greg manhandled the younger man until he was stood facing the bed and tied his arms wrist-to-elbow behind his back tightly, leaving no wiggle room. Sherlock gasped, forgetting how much he liked this part. He cock stood a bit more proudly now, totally interested in the proceedings. Once his arms were done and the gag wedged between his teeth and buckled tight, Greg laced the eye of the hook with the rope and held it in front of Sherlock for him to see.

"Think you can still handle this one?" he asked, rubbing a slicked up hand over the bulb. Sherlock winced as two fingers probed his entrance but nodded. If he couldn't handle that, then there was no way he could handle Greg's cock, and he fully intended to get that inside him  _today_. He forced his back to relax as those two slicker fingers slid in slowly, twisting around for a moment before scissoring. He hissed against the gag, pushing his arse out a bit more for Greg to go faster. "You know," Sherlock rolled his eyes. He forgot that Greg was a talker in the bedroom. Tedious. He closed his eyes and focused on working back against those fingers, was it three now? "I have to admit, I'd much rather it be this way, where I can take you home and smack you around a bit after a case when you're acting so awful. Much more fun," Lestrade pulled his fingers away, swatting Sherlock on the arse hard as he whimpered and moved back to find them again. "You do love things in your arse, don't you love?" Sherlock nodded and groaned as the cold metal bulb was pressed against his entrance. "Shhh, relax," he did, and in it popped, the feeling not at all what he wanted in that moment as it seated deep inside, just past his prostate so he got no friction. Just there to hold him open for Greg to abuse later. The detective snorted and shifted his weight, trying to look as nonchalant as he could manage with a ball in his arse and an angry Dom behind him.

After licking up a trail of fire on his back, he felt his shoulder pressed down by Greg's hand until his face met the bed. He relaxed into it if only for a second before a whisper in the air and a perfunctory hand grazing over his skin told him that the thrashing was about to begin.

"Sherlock?" Greg caught his attention. He turned his head to the side and grunted questioningly. "Today we'll start with the flogger, get you nice and pink. You're not to come, at all. You understand? Not at all today. You've been awful to John and to myself for a while now, and you don't deserve it." Sherlock groaned and buried his face in the duvet but nodded. "What was that?" Greg asked, swatting his arse.

"Yes sir," he managed around the gag. The rubber was getting slick now, drool clinging the material of the duvet to his cheek a bit. Filthy.

"If I need to I have a cock ring. Can you manage without it?" the younger man squirmed and nodded. He hated that ring more than anything else. He'd rather Anderson— _THWACK!_

"Ah!" Sherlock cried, his back arching convex to tuck his arse up under him instinctively. He caught himself halfway, relaxing back into his original pose with ease so that Greg could continue.

"Oh, good boy," Greg purred, his fingers tracing the lines of the flogger as they dappled up that paper-white skin perfectly. "You sink back into it so instinctively. I miss it." To this Sherlock merely groaned and pushed his arse out again, seeking another blow. Greg happily obliged, striking Sherlock over and over until he was starting to shrink away once more, tenderness taking over the original pleasure. Sherlock's hands were fisted in his bonds, his balance only held up by the fact that Greg had pushed him up onto the mattress to his waist at one point because his knees were starting to cave. The DI reached forward and unsnapped the ball gag, reaching down to tug at the hook a bit and get Sherlock's attention again. He wasn't quite shut off, not yet. That mind was still whirring.

"Do we need to go deeper, boy? Do I need to find a nice cane or a riding crop and make your whole back ruddy? I can still fell you in there, Sherlock," Greg murmured, tapping the younger man's temple. Sherlock whimpered and tentatively thrust back into Greg's hips, grinding against the erection that had bloomed there during the flogging.

The older man dropped the flogger back into the toy box in his closet and reached behind the clothes for the bamboo cane pole that was leaning against the wall. He could feel the sub's eyes on him, the tension in the room growing to a palpable thickness. For once, Sherlock felt a bit scared at the imminent pain, but his mind slipped deeper into sub-space at the thought, so he didn't opt out, he didn't beg for mercy. He wouldn't have gotten it anyway.

Lestrade turned all muscle for the next few moves. He untied Sherlock's wrists and tugged him into a standing position. "Face me," he commanded, and Sherlock did, keeping himself from rubbing his forearms where the blood was returning, making the skin prickle. "Give me your hands," and they came to rest in his own. Greg suppressed a smile. "Why on earth can't you be this easy on a crime scene? You like showing off too much, eh?" Sherlock nodded meekly. "You're being awfully quiet tonight. Even for you," he murmured, coming close, squeezing in a bit tighter. He saw Sherlock prep for the kiss, and decided to hold out on him. Unbelievably, Sherlock actually whined at the hesitation, his need for contact wearing thin on his sub-space. Greg rolled his eyes so that Sherlock would see and tugged the taller man down to meet their lips in an agonizingly slow circuit of tongues. By the end of it, Sherlock's hands were clutching at Greg's where they had been held. The Di was shaking blood back into his arms, little by little, and the younger man sighed as they began to feel normal again.

"Now, Sherlock, I am going to have you turn around and hold the arms of the chair," Lestrade said, pushing Sherlock in the direction of an armchair in the corner under a reading lamp. Sherlock bent over it beautifully. "Gorgeous," Greg commented, sliding a hand down over Sherlock's unmarked back and down over the thin welts to his thigh. He felt more than saw Sherlock's smile and knew that the man loved to be complemented. For a person with such a prickly outer ego, he was certainly worse for wear in his own mind. He needed the constant attention, the compliments. They made him feel…safer? Maybe that wasn't the word, but it was at least partially true.

"How many, sir?" Sherlock prompted, startling Greg into remembering his cane and the lashing that needed to ensue. Oh, how he loved to break this man's skin, watch the red turn up just under the skin, ready for release. Sherlock would be healing for a solid week, he was sure. And John would notice, somehow…he'd just have to order Sherlock to wear clothing at all times at Baker Street.

"How many do you think you deserve for being so rude lately?" Greg asked in return. Sherlock looked back at the cane and thought, biting his full bottom lip. Greg stepped forward and claimed the soft flesh, sucking it into his mouth and biting down slightly, enough to raise the blood and swell it up a bit. When he straightened again, Sherlock had his number.

"Seven," he muttered. His lisp was getting bad, and Greg took it as their usual marker that he needed to hurry the fuck up and do this so he could bury himself inside the younger man and watch him scream. Because he wasn't allowed to come. Regardless the DI nodded, recognizing the significance, and took up the cane, moving it over to where Sherlock still bent and placing the wood between his teeth so that it held out like a bit. Sherlock held it there perfectly as Greg tugged the hook out of his arse and ran cool, lube-slicked fingers over his arse gently before letting the hook clatter to the floor with the last of the rope. He unceremoniously stuck two fingers in the tight heat, making the younger man hiss around the cane, probably biting deep gouges into it.

"If you mark-up that cane you'll get another lash for each divot," he commented, and saw Sherlock's jaw release instantly. Silly boy, thought he was sneaky. Greg pulled his fingers out and held his hand under the cane, waiting for Sherlock to drop it into his palm.

"Now, Sherlock, I am going to hit you, and for every line I want you to count, thank me, and ask for the next number, understand?" Sherlock nodded, stretching his long legs out a bit wider so that he had a firmer stance. This was going to be no picnic. "Actually, put your knees on the cushion and your hips up against the back, yes like that. Now, rear back, hands behind your head…that's the ticket. These'll land here," he tapped the tip of the cane between Sherlock's shoulder blades jutting out of the thin man like wings and he shuddered. "Steady," Greg reprimanded. He took a step back.

Sherlock was now kneeling on the chair, his cock being teased by the soft suede material as he held his swaying position and held his hands behind his head, burying them in his own curls. The younger man heard the whistle and tensed slightly, letting the crack of pain rush the air out of his lungs better than any high he'd ever had. His back arched impressively, a cry ripping from his lungs before he could catch it. He felt the blood pooling beneath the surface and groaned, remembering his script.

"Ah, fuck…one sir, thank you. May I have another?" he asked, fumbling over the words with his stupid lisp. Every time Greg really got him going it started cropping up agai—aah!

"FUCK!...oh..gah—shit, two, thank you sir may I have another?" he asked again. He felt Greg's chuckle grace the air and a tentative finger come forward to brush a stray tiny drop of something hot off his scapula. Greg brought the tiny grace of blood round and had him lick his finger clean before he would continue. This time, Sherlock put his head down.

"Stay with me, Sherlock, don't get caught up in your head. The mind palace is for work, not play, understood?" Greg demanded, jabbing a searing hot line of skin as he commanded this. Sherlock whimpered and nodded. "Yes sir," he whispered. The third crack came down shortly thereafter. Four screaming rants later, Sherlock was a trembling mass of nerves and staved-off orgasm. He knew that he was going to come without permission, and he hated it. But he would not tell Greg, because that hateful rubber ring was just tormenting him, and he knew that Greg anticipated that he'd fail his first command of the day, but he just couldn't make himself give a fuck about it. It was his first time getting human contact since they'd ended it last time, and seven years is a long time to go with no orgasms coming from other stimuli than your own begrudging hand.

Greg let the cane clatter to the floor near the hook as he caught Sherlock's fall backward toward the floor. He was so far gone, he couldn't even make his muscles obey correctly. "Whoa, hey do I need to stop? Sherlock?" he asked frantically, slapping Sherlock's face lightly to get an answer out of him fast. The younger man shook his head and begged.

"NO! No, I just…it's been a while, sir, I wasn't quite prepared to go that far yet. I'm sorry for not warning you," he hung his head and let Greg carry him to the wide bed. The duvet was cool against his heated back and arse, making him sink into it even more.

"I'm going to fuck you, slow and gentle, and then you're going to lay here and let me clean you up like a good boy. I want you to stay, Sherlock. Can you tell John? Just so he doesn't worry." Greg smiled and gave him a tender kiss when Sherlock nodded. He went out into the living room and got the mobile, seeing a missed call from the mother hen himself. Sherlock snorted when he saw the responding text.

_Why are you not at Bart's? Or anywhere normal? Greg's not answering either. Just tell me you're okay, please._

He tapped out a reply and set the phone on the bedside table, wriggling into the bed for Greg to crawl on top of him comfortably.

 _I'm at Greg's. Do not come here, I am fine. I'll be home in the morning._  His phone buzzed a minute later, but the two men ignored it as their tongues battled gently in the space of Sherlock's wonderful mouth, he would never tire of these perfect lips, the DI thought, mindlessly trailing his tongue down over that long, pale neck to nip at a collar bone.

Sherlock spread his legs a bit wider, letting Greg settle between them as he sucked on the two fingers that the Di stuck in his mouth, getting them good and wet. "Please sir," he mumbled around the digits, getting some drool on his cheek.

"What is it, beautiful boy?" Lestrade asked, trailing kisses alternating with sharp bites all over the younger man's torso.

"If you don't want me to come, then I need to suck you off. I'm so close already," he blushed, letting out the secret he'd intended to manipulate.

"Well, you were good for telling me, weren't you?" Sherlock nodded, blushing still. "Then I suppose I can let you come. I've taken quite a lot out of you tonight, anyway," he laughed when long pale arms wrapped around his neck, tugging him down for a kiss with a hurried cry of  _thankyousir_! "Now, wrap your leg around—that's it, good boy. You remember," he cooed, lining up his cock with the already-prepped hole of his sub. He sank in slow, like he had said, inch by inch until he felt himself bottom out, a thick cry echoing the room as Sherlock's body gave, letting him in deeper than fingers had gotten in a good long while.

"Please," Sherlock begged, tilting his hips a little and trying to get Greg to move a bit faster. He wasn't having it. He closed a hand firmly around Sherlock's throat and held fast, drawing out slowly as he'd gone in, and right back in again. It was tortuous, sure, but it wasn't driving the detective any less insane. He could feel Sherlock's body already convulsing around his thickness, trying to milk his prostate for all it was worth. A few choice drags of cock here and there did the trick, and between the asphyxiation and the stimulation Sherlock was erupting across both their chests. He whited out for a minute, so Greg drew out and rammed in a few times, getting himself off after a few minutes of this while he had the lovely and perfect body of an intellectual demigod pinned beneath him.

Sherlock came to a few minutes later, as Greg was drawing out and going to fetch a flannel from the bathroom for cleanup. As he was wiping down Sherlock, getting the come out of his shallow bellybutton and over his prominent ribs, the younger man closed a long hand over his wrist, looking at him directly for the first intentional time that night. "Thank you, Greg," he said, and let his eyes close. "I think that you would be a lovely installment at baker street, in the future," he added, letting his mind turn back on as he reached for the message from John and read it, a light smile playing over his lips at the grumbled (he's sure) " _okay_."

He rolled in the bed and got to where he was not in a wet spot, curled up with his back to Greg, the soft hair from his wide chest playing with his sensitized back so perfectly. He was asleep in minutes. Greg held out a tad longer, rubbing his lips over the knot of Sherlock's bony shoulder as he thought about what he'd signed back up for. It was a wild ride, to be sure, but you can hardly blame him for jumping back in line, right?


	4. Kitty!Lock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I...was asked to do this. I have never done a kitty fic before and actually had to read a few to get comfortable with the idea. but here you go. it's quite...emotional. warnings for mentioned past rape/sex slave type stuff but it's not graphic, also I guess I was in a bit of a edgar-allen-poe-mood, it's kind of dark and moody and there's a lot of doting on BAMF!John because he is just so...John-y in this. he fixes things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umbra Drachen, if you are on AO3 then this is for you, because i asked for prompts and you are so far the only one who has answered the call. I will try to get it to FF.net asap as well, though.

John had been walking down the street— several months’ past by now— when he had stumbled upon a homeless, skinny vagrant cat-hybrid in the street. He was long-limbed and dark-haired, bone-thin and filthy, shivering in the London winter, with no collar, no clothes save for pants with a hole in the back for his long, listless tail, and no energy. John winced but made himself walk past the creature; maybe it belonged to someone and they were looking for him?

The next day, the same condition could be said of the hybrid, but this time there were a group of young boys in the alley, kicking and laughing at the poor creature. John cleared his throat loudly and they looked up.

“Does he belong to you?” he asked, calmly but commandingly. The hybrid’s ears twitched a little toward him and maybe one sea-glass flavoured eye poked out over his forearm questioningly and—perhaps—in disbelief. The boys looked a tiny bit ashamed and shook their heads, scattering back out of the alley when John jerked his head to the side and stepped back for them to exit. He went over to the hybrid when they’d dispersed.

“Hey, there, mate.” John extended a hand and touched the hybrid’s arm lightly, the one over his eyes. The hybrid tensed visibly, but didn’t try to get away. Maybe he couldn’t. He was in the same position John had seen him in yesterday, just a bit more jostled from the beating.

“Why is a creature as beautiful as you down here in the dirt, eh?” John asked, tugging at the man’s arm until he gave, sitting up against the brick of an adjoining building. He breathed a little too hard for John’s taste, ribs sticking out everywhere as he heaved and his eyes trailed all over the small doctor.

John let him explore as he slowly loosened his muscles and let John examine him. Once the hybrid had identified John as an ex-army medic, he relaxed almost completely. He didn’t have a trace of “untrustworthy” in him, Sherlock decided.

“M-m-my name is Sh-Sherlock,” the hybrid supplied in a quiet voice. Quiet, but quite deep. John looked up from wiping at a cut on the back of the hybrid’s hand and offered a quick smile.

“My name’s John Watson, Sherlock...Sherlock What? Do you have an owner?” he asked quietly. Sherlock grimaced and shook his head, eyes going solidly back to the dirty cobblestone beneath him.

“My name before I was sold was Holmes,” he supplied, taking John’s offer to get up off the ground. Maybe…maybe he’d take him somewhere to get some food? That was the best Sherlock had learned to expect from humans these days. They rarely paid any attention to even someone as expensively made as Sherlock had been. The hybrid daren’t hope for anything better from a stranger.

“Would you like to come home with me, then? I live in a flatshare alone with a nice older lady who lives downstairs. Mrs. Hudson, she’s my landlady…?” he let the question trail off as Sherlock’s knees went out beneath him. He was just too weak and undernourished to balance well. The dehydration had also taken a toll, but it was easier to find water—even if it was kind of toxic from pollution—in rainy London than food most days, so it wasn’t as bad. John tightened his grip around the hybrid’s ribs and swung his thin body up, catching just under his knees to a bridal carry. If Sherlock squeaked just a bit during the move, John didn’t mention it. At this point, John was taking the younger man home to clean him up and feed him at least, even if he didn’t want to stay. He started walking toward the main road, ready to hail a cab.

“Poke out an arm, will you? Mine are a bit full,” John commented, winking at Sherlock. The hybrid gave him a thin smile and wavered an arm out, hailing a cab. John got in and kept Sherlock on his lap to avoid any cleaning charges from the driver. Sherlock _was_ absolutely filthy.

“Ah, 221 Baker Street, please.” John supplied to the driver and they were on their way.

During the short trip, Sherlock swished his tail anxiously in the space between John’s legs, brushing the insides of each calf as his did so. He let himself lean heavily into the doctor’s chest and even his ears gave a bit of interest away as he watched the outside world pass them by.

When they arrived, John passed the driver £20 for keeping his mouth shut and not complaining about the smell or dirt. The man smiled and drove off pleasantly enough as Sherlock swayed on the bottom stair. John half-lugged him to the door, unlocked it, and showed him in before picking him back up again for the two flights of stairs, this time in a much easier fireman’s hold.

If Sherlock showed any displeasure at the rough carry, he didn’t mention it.

Mrs. Hudson was in John’s kitchen, wiping down the counters (she always insists she isn’t a housekeeper then proceeds to clean half of 221B anyway) so when John came in with a filthy, smelly hybrid slung over his shoulder in just a pair of dirty pants, she squealed a bit and scurried over to help immediately.

“John, what on earth!”

“Mrs. Hudson, this is Sherlock.” John set him on his feet and turned the taller man around to face her, keeping a steadying hand on his lower back comfortably. “He’s homeless, so I brought him over to help him get cleaned up and put some weight on. Would you run a bath while I get him some food?” he asked politely. Mrs. Hudson reached out and rubbed one of Sherlock’s ears gently and cooed before walking into the WC to do just that. When they could hear water running, John pushed Sherlock toward a seat at the table and went rummaging for a can of tuna.

Sherlock sat rather uncomfortably at the table. He’d never been allowed at one before. Victor had made him sit on the floor and eat out of bowls. The young hybrid sat, twisting his fingers in his lap and looked around the flat surreptitiously.

“Erm…” John pulled a face and glanced up at Sherlock curiously. “I’ve never had a hybrid ‘round before…do you prefer the can, or a bowl…fork?” he asked, brandishing the instrument in question toward Sherlock as he held the can of tuna in the other. The smell was mouth-watering; Sherlock felt his pupils dilate just a bit. He licked his lips and answered fairly calmly, given his starvation.

“The can is fine…but yes, I’d like the fork…if I may?” he reached across the table, stopping short of touching John by about a foot, and waited. John heard his stomach grumble loudly, and made haste to finish opening the can and thrust it along with the fork into Sherlock’s outstretched palm.

“You’ll need some fluids. I might have a…yes here it is,” John stood back up as Sherlock set the empty can of food back down on the table-top, licking his lips and staring back at him. John was holding a saline drip-bag and digging in a large First-Aid kit for tubing and a butterfly needle. He found one just as Mrs. Hudson called from the toilet, saying the bath was ready, and that she’d go find some of Mr. Hudson’s old clothes if she could for Sherlock, since the lanky hybrid was too tall and skinny for any of John’s clothing to fit.

“Would do,” he called after her down the stairs as he hobbled with Sherlock down to the toilet where he helped ease the younger man out of his holey pants and into the steaming water.

John kept his motions clinical as possible, for which Sherlock was unspeakably grateful. He was admittedly a bit frightened of this human only bringing him home to give him enough of a cleaning and feeding to have sex with him and turn him back out onto the street.

_But,_ he thought, _a bit of sex for one night off the street and a full belly is better than not, right? Maybe this John fellow wouldn’t be too rough._ Sherlock was thrown back into reality by the soft and slightly inquisitive scrub of a flannel over his broad back, trailing soap down over his shoulder and arm to clean it for the saline drip John had already set up. He had tied it to the shower-curtain railing above them while Sherlock daydreamed in the hot water, letting his joints and muscles relax for the first time in months.

“So your owner turned you out, or you left?” John asked, keeping his voice light and soft. He was focusing on getting a vein to stand up on Sherlock’s inner forearm. He was so dehydrated, it was becoming rather difficult.

“I, um…I wouldn’t have sex with him and his friends for his birthday, so he threw me out. But not before he made sure I knew that he’d gotten another hybrid. A female, this time. She was stupid and much more compliant. And, as you know, when we are released from a contract without another full human to take us in and collar us, we are left out on the streets. I can’t even get a menial job without a new collar,” Sherlock mumbled into the bubbles as John finally sank in the needle. He left his arm poking out of the water like a dead tree branch as he sank in a bit deeper. John paused after he taped the needle down and sat for a minute, staring.

“He wanted, what, a _gangbang_? And because you shied off he threw you out to be homeless? Wow. I mean, how much did he pay for you?” John rubbed at an ear as he slid shampooed fingers through Sherlock’s overgrown hair, cleaning them and the tangled mess as one. “I can’t imagine less than, what, a hundred thousand quid?” Sherlock moaned and rubbed his head instinctively against John’s scouring fingers. It felt so good.

“Something like that. But I was engineered embryonically; my parents had planned to sell me all along. My brother is much more valuable to them, now. Second children usually get the shaft, you know,” he commented offhandedly, knowing from his deductions on the ex-army doctor earlier that he was the youngest with an older sibling.  

“Yeah, that they do.” John started when Mrs. Hudson called her signature _woo-hoo_ and rounded the kitchen and down the short hall to the loo. John was kneeling outside of the tub with Sherlock submerged up to his nose in the steaming water, looking half-asleep already.  

“Here you go, Sherlock, deary, hopefully these will fit for the time being. I’ve brought you a dressing gown and some clothes for tomorrow as well.” She nodded sagely to his bubbly-meek _thanks_ and rounded on the doctor. “John, if you need anything else or someone to watch him when you go in Monday, I’ll be downstairs. You boys behave, and let him get some sleep, the poor dear,” she chided John, the both of them throwing a glance back to Sherlock’s drooping eyelids over the water.

He hadn’t been this comfortable in years.

Mrs. Hudson disappeared back down the hall and before long they heard the chimes over her door rattle, indicating she had retreated to her kitchen. _Probably to bake up some sweets to put fat on this skinny hybrid,_ John thought. Good idea.

“Come on, let me clean you up some more and then you can sleep to your heart’s content. I have two bedrooms, the guest one is upstairs, but I don’t fancy having to carry you again so you can sleep in the en-suite right there,” John nodded to the frosted glass door behind Sherlock’s head and dug around in the water for the flannel he had dropped earlier. He found it and deposited more soap onto the soft cloth, helping Sherlock sit up against the back of the tub a bit better so he could reach all of him more easily. Sherlock whimpered as John traced over the fresh cuts and scrapes all along his back, sides, and thighs, probably from being on the streets for a few months, but overall seemed to enjoy his little rub-down.

Sherlock got a bit shy when John tried to help him out of the water, but then he remembered that the good doctor was being so clinical, that it didn’t really matter that he was dripping wet and naked in front of him. Except that he was getting a bit interested in the man just from the fact that he hadn’t been so cruel.

_Not yet, anyway._

The hybrid was having trouble drowning out the voice in his head that kept telling him that John would eventually turn rogue and bend him over the first available surface. Nothing about the doctor betrayed his interest in Sherlock, sexually, whatsoever thus far. So, with quite a bit of effort, Sherlock told his cock to behave itself and stood in the water, leaning heavily on John once again, as the doctor strived to wrap a towel around him and help get his long legs out onto the cold tile. John set Sherlock on the closed toilet seat and bent down to drain the tub. He then turned back and roughed- up Sherlock a bit with the towel to dry him off and get some blood flow into his limbs, wary of the saline drip.

John then knelt and eased Sherlock’s long feet into a pair of pants, which Mrs. Hudson—god bless her—had already cut a small hole into for the hybrid’s tail. Once they were situated on thin hips, John stood Sherlock back up and reached for the IV drip. He paused, thinking of something belatedly.

“Do you um…do you need to use the toilet?” he asked, not sure how Sherlock, or really most hybrids for that matter, preferred to do their business. Sherlock offered a weak smile and shook his head. He was too dehydrated to produce much waste, anyway.

John nodded and went back to untying the bag and threw an arm round the taller man’s waist, helping him into his bedroom. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed as John yanked back the duvet and slid his legs in, tucking the thick cover up clear to the hybrid’s chin. The drip bag was secured to the bed-post above his left shoulder. Only then did John pause in his precise movements to look about himself and begin to pick up scant socks and papers that he had let lay about. A novel there, a belt here. He threw everything onto the armchair by the window and came back to sit on the side of the bed.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, checking his watch. He’d had Sherlock about an hour by now, and his colour was already improving from a small meal and a good hot bath. Better than the near-freezing conditions outside, anyway. Sherlock yawned deeply and nodded, a small smile stretching across his lips.

“Good. If you need me I’ll be dozing on the sofa out here in the sitting room, okay?” Sherlock nodded again, already half asleep, and John patted his head with a small smile himself, reaching down to untwine an unruly black tail from his calf and tuck it back under the duvet with its owner before closing the door over and heading out to plop on the sofa with some crap telly and a beer.               

He tried, rather in vain mind you, to get the image of those ethereal eyes out of his mind’s eye for the rest of the night.

***

John was awakened several hours later—the clock now read 02:17 a.m.—by a fearful whine and a loud thump. Both came from his bedroom, where he raced off to find Sherlock tangled in the bed sheets in a sweaty lump on the floor. His eyes were huge, the retina catching a stray beam of light from the bathroom and turning them a glowing green as he looked around frantically to try and piece together where he was. John got down to his knees and slowly made his way over to the scared hybrid, murmuring softly.

“Sherlock? You’re okay, you’re with me. It’s John, remember? And Mrs. Hudson? She’s downstairs…?” he asked, reaching out a hand. As soon as he brushed the brunette’s too-long hair with his fingertips, the man ducked but didn’t back away. He froze, a quiet whine starting low in his chest. John inched closer, letting his body signals control the moment. He sat cross-legged and waited for the hybrid to show some sign of ease and come nearer of his own accord.

Sherlock quickly latched onto the scent of tea and gunpowder that John seemed to carry in his very skin and almost instantly calmed. Sherlock felt safer already. He melted into John’s soft touch and crawled unceremoniously into his lap, squashing the smaller men a bit as he straddled him, settling his bum in the space created by his position, and letting his tail curl around John’s right knee and tickle at his foot a tad.

John let out a quiet _oomph!_ But didn’t otherwise really respond to suddenly having a lap full of squirming hybrid, other than letting one hand settle easily on his lower back, right above his tail, and the other nestle a bit deeper into his hair. He thumbed an ear questioningly, and Sherlock rubbed his face into it, encouraging John to comfort him some more in the silence of the early morning.

“You okay now?” John asked after several more minutes, when his cock finally decided that it should quit trying to gain their attention and had settled down, as did Sherlock’s breathing. He was almost asleep again, draped over the doctor’s shoulder, nose pressed into his war-weathered skin. His eyes fluttered open at the soft interruption of the peace.

“Yes, I apologize,” Sherlock started to disentangle himself, though John could tell that he really wanted to stay where he was. “I get rather vivid nightmares sometimes, particularly starring my previous…owner.” Sherlock grimaced but set about getting himself off of John. But John had an idea. Sherlock squawked a bit when the doctor cupped his arse and pinned his pelvis to John’s belly and stood, the longer man clenching his not-inconsiderable limbs around John like a vice, and walked back to the bed with him in tow. John settled against the headboard with all of the pillows tucked behind and around him. He shoved another under his neck and let it poke out a bit on the side before he relaxed back, letting them cushion his position. Sherlock got the picture and gave him a shy smile, tucking his nose back into the hollow beneath John’s throat, and settled to where he was laying—legs sprawled—between John’s legs, his torso and head supported by John’s sturdy chest, surrounded by his arms on both sides. His whole _body_ surrounded on both sides by this amazing man who had saved him for no reason. His tail swayed in ambiance as he relaxed again, letting John take the lead.

It wasn’t long before the both of them were asleep once more.

***

**_A Few Weeks Later…_ **

John had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. He was a doctor. He had been invalided out of the army a few months back, and this kind old widow had let him rent her upstairs for practically nothing while he got back into civilian mode. He’d been home for precisely three months when he found Sherlock in that alley. He’d never been this close to a hybrid; they were still in a rather “experimental phase” if you would, and only the obscenely rich could pay for the surgeries.

Sherlock wasn’t wrong, the second child, usually the second son or daughter in the line of other same-sexed siblings, was usually the one to have the surgery done. It was cruel, in a way, because they were basically made out to be slaves—little more than _pets_ —for the rest of their lives, and they had never even been allowed to breathe their own air yet.

Yes, in John’s opinion, biological engineering had gotten quite out-of-hand.

John had been visited already by Mycroft, the terrifying older brother of Sherlock, but after the man had been assured that Sherlock was not being used as any kind of sex slave, and that he was far from being starved for either affection or nutrition, he left and had only texted in a few times to his brother’s new mobile—a gift from Mycroft himself—since.

Sherlock was getting more and more desperate to go outside, but he hadn’t any kind of collar or legitimacy anymore, so he couldn’t go into shops or restaurants anyway. He was itching for some stimulation out-of-doors.

John had an idea.

And here the doctor was, happily tapping his foot on the floor of the Piccadilly Line as he made his way home. He had a plastic shopping bag clutched in his right hand, a worn-but-still-put-together box on the other. He had a few presents for his friend.

Life at 221B had gotten a bit more…unpredictable since Sherlock’s internment there. He caused things to “magically” catch on fire, there had been several instances were dead mice were found either in the freezer or, more disturbingly, in the confines of the sofa. (Sherlock said they were experiments and, when confronted, looked a terrible combination of terrified that John would hit him/throw him out and offended that John had to even ask.)   So, John was bringing him home something to fix his plights.

“Sherlock!” he called up the stairs as he climbed them by twos. He heard the sofa creak and knew he was about to be tackled at the door. He braced for it, but rather than the hug he normally got, he was peered at inquisitively.

“Taking the stairs by two? _And_ the Piccadilly Line? What on earth have you been up to today, John?” John rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen. He was far too used to these deductions even after only a few weeks with his eccentric new flat mate.

“I got you a few things, Sherlock. Come here,” he pushed out a chair for him and went to stand across the table from the younger man. When Sherlock didn’t immediately go for the parcels, John nudged them closer and told him to open them.

Now, Sherlock had _also_ grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. Never before had someone decided to treat him like a human. All Victor ever saw was a big bank account and a tail. He was a pet, nothing, there for entertainment and occasionally a hole to fill. He had to eat out bowls on the floor, sleep in a basket that was far too small for his limbs, and crawl along after Victor whenever there were guests over. He was expected to be the perfect servant in these situations, occasionally… _servicing_ all of them. More than a few times he had had to do them all at once. So the last time he refused, he had been smacked around. When he fought back, that’s when Victor kicked him out. But not before he put Sherlock in a metal crate for four days and gave him nothing but occasional glasses of water, tilted through the bars, and showed off his new pet. She was a Dalmatian-hybrid, with a long sleek tail, slim thighs and build, and heavily freckled skin. She was all too eager to be a hole for him and his bar mates to fill, and Sherlock had been forced to sit and pout in his cage until Victor had officially voided the contract that bound him to the Holmes family.

So when John pushed those two parcels toward him, he choked a little. He had no idea what was in them, but knowing John it was more than likely going to be good. It wasn’t food. John never stopped on his way home; too early, he said. The smaller one…Sherlock dove for it first, eyeing John carefully as he tore the plastic bag open and fished out the smallish black velvet box. He waited for a second, until John’s attention was bordering on impatience in his anxiety, and opened it.

Inside was a thin, black leather collar that had been polished inside and out for maximum comfort against delicate skin. It had a small gold circle hanging from the thin D-ring at the front. Sherlock had no idea what to say. His throat ached. His old collar had been a cheap dog-collar from Tesco. The Nylon had left a rather lasting impression on his skin. He couldn’t even bring himself to touch the collar, he was so overwhelmed by the gesture. John started to fidget.

“It—it’s just for outside, you know, like when you want to go to the shops or something without me, yeah? So you don’t always have to wait for me, or even really ask permission or anything. Just—I mean—I’d like you know when you’re coming back, or if you are…” he added quietly. Sherlock lifted his eyes to the ceiling to keep the tears from breaching the line of his lower lid and smiled back at John. He lifted up and read the small ID tag.

_Sherlock_

_Prop. Dr. John H. Watson_

_221B Baker Street_

_Westminster_

On the back there was John’s mobile, his work, and Mrs. Hudson’s numbers, in neat rows. Sherlock laughed and beamed across at John, still fidgeting a bit under his scrutiny.

“I love it, John. Thank you,” he said as warmly as he could. “Would you?” he offered the collar to John and the smaller man scrambled to walk behind Sherlock, taking it in hand and fastening it around Sherlock’s slim neck. He had put on some weight, nearly a whole stone, since he’d moved in, but it was not enough, in John’s medical opinion.

The collar fit beautifully, with the tag dipping just into Sherlock’s suprasternal notch comfortably.

John cleared his throat as though embarrassed and walked back around the table, pushing the larger box over to Sherlock as he settled back in his chair. He once again waited as Sherlock peered at it, fingering his new ID tag while he made rapid deductions.

_Old_

_From work, not bought_

_For me…?_

_Sentimental. John is, not the item to him, necessarily._

_Hmmm_.

Sherlock reached forward and opened the loose lid on the box and gasped. John had surprised him, again.

It was a microscope.

This time, Sherlock let the tears fall as he pulled out the device and set it up right there on the kitchen table. No one had ever… _ever_ let him experiment freely. And now, John was trusting him not only to experiment, not to burn down the flat or turn his hair white with chemicals or choke them all on acid fumes, but he was giving him the open freedom to run about town for supplies and giving him the ability to find inspiration elsewhere. He turned on the light and peered through the lens, nearly cracking up inside as he held the gagging emotions at bay.

How could someone have found him—a discarded, unwanted hybrid mess—in an alley and in two weeks teach him what it is to be alive again? What it is to be loved, even if it was platonic?

This John…John Watson. He was the real deal. He had dealt with physical and mental ruin in the army, and coming back from it, only to pass on what healing he knew through his kindness and mercy.

Sherlock had never loved a person more. Not even his own family came close to how he felt for this righteous man across the table from him. They had sold him, literally, to an abusive man for his money. They had made him into a salve before he was even known to be male or female in the womb. He had never stood a chance.

But with John, he did. And he was going to take it.

***

“John, will you come here, please?” Sherlock called from the bedroom. John had been letting Sherlock sleep in there since the second day when he got up to the guest room and promptly turned back around and receded under John’s bed in a fit to stay nearer to the comfy man. John followed the sound of his voice out of the steamy toilet—fresh from a shower—to find Sherlock curled up on his side, tail flicking about and betraying him a bit. He stretched a hand out toward the doctor and John huffed a laugh, dropping the towel from where he’d been rubbing at his hair and climbed in in his pants.

Evidently Sherlock was seeking a cuddle, tonight.

The good doctor maneuvered himself under the thick duvet, sliding up close to Sherlock so the hybrid could curl around him and steal some much-sought-after ear rubs. But Sherlock had a different agenda.

They had been ignoring things like morning wood and erections up until lately, and it had been going well. But Sherlock had made his interest clear when he rutted against John in his sleep a couple nights ago, and John had lain there, fascinated. Since then, John's had it-erm—well, _hard_ for the younger man. So when Sherlock snuggled in close, spreading his thighs to capture one of John’s between them, and he felt a thick, mostly-hard cock nestle up against the meat of his thigh, John’s cock woke up quite quickly to answer that call. He turned a bit more toward Sherlock, who was still wearing and lightly fingering that damned collar, eyes glowing a bit in the pale light from the toilet.

“Do you want this, really, Sherlock? You don’t need to repay me for the collar, or anything, ever. You understand that, yeah?” John was whispering to the dark to keep himself from lunging on top of the hybrid and kissing him senseless.

“I know, perfectly, John. I want this. No one had ever treated me as anything close to an equal. With you, I feel more… necessary,” he trailed off, lips catching bits of John’s throat as he crawled a bit closer, coming up on his elbows over John. Their legs tangled, and a tail brushed someone’s thigh, tickling it. John jumped and laughed into Sherlock’s mouth, letting out a low groan when their tongues swept over one another.

This wasn’t anything close to dominance and submission, though one may be wearing the collar and have a lower caste in life. In this, Sherlock didn’t need or want to be catered to. He knew how to give, and how to take. And John certainly was one for the giving, in all things. He let Sherlock guide them, deciding to lay back and do as he was asked.

“Did—oh _god_ yeah, like that love—agh—did, uh, you want to top? Or do you want me—to—ooo?” John gasped out between love bites and lapping kisses to his torso and bollocks. Sherlock was teasing him, purposefully avoiding his cock as it throbbed against his temple.

“Mmmm. What would you prefer, John?” he stretched his back beautifully, arching well, like a cat over John as he settled his limbs onto either side of the smaller man, engulfing him. He nipped at a bit of untouched skin at John’s neck as he waited for his answer.

“I don’t mind, Sherlock, honest. If you’d like to top, you’re more than welcome to. But if you _like_ to bottom, then let me make you good and sore, love.” Sherlock snuffled a laugh at that and nodded, reaching over for the lube he found a few days ago in John’s bedside. “Someone’d been snooping,” John commented halfheartedly as Sherlock shimmied down his body, nipping and licking here and there, making John jump each time. He engulfed John’s cock in his mouth expertly, taking him to the root as John felt a hand disappear from his thigh.

Sherlock worked himself open quickly and thoroughly, taking a few extra moments to taste every inch of John he could fit in his mouth, spreading his thighs open a bit more to lap behind his love’s bollocks and into that most tender place. John jumped but groaned, writhing a bit as he fought to keep his hands in the sheets and let Sherlock explore. Sherlock loved him all the more for that simple gesture.

The hybrid crawled back up, finally, straddling John and lining himself up with ease. John looked a bit surprised, he’d honestly expected Sherlock to jump at the opportunity to top him, but maybe he simply liked this better. Topping from the bottom, was it?

John’s brain short-circuited as Sherlock sank down on his length, enveloping it in tight, ringed heat that clenched at him mercilessly. He had opened himself up just enough so it didn’t burn, but he was nowhere near “loose” yet.

John lay back and tried to breathe evenly for several minutes as Sherlock writhed, lifted, dropped, and rutted on top of him, trying to find the right angle, until the good doctor finally lost his good patience and rolled them over.

“Oh _god_ yes,” Sherlock screamed and arched back when John thrust in as hard as he could, angling up a tad so that the head of his cock hit that tender spot dead-on, and let the rest of his thick member rub against it mercilessly as he made the strokes long and deep. The doctor wrapped the trashing tail around his wrist and locked Sherlock’s ankles over his shoulders as he continued to give his new lover the rogering they both seemed to need just then. It only stoked Sherlock’s flame higher when John curved down to meet his lips tenderly, never missing a beat in his thrusting, and leaned down further to kiss the ID tag that bounced off Sherlock’s chest.

The younger man palmed his cock minutely, seemingly trying to make it last, but one final hard thrust against his prostate had him wailing out and clawing at John’s shoulders regardless, riding a wave of ecstasy he had never been allowed to indulge in before.

John rode the younger man through his orgasm and let it stoke his own, the fire growing hot and roiling in his lower belly. He leaned back and gave a few more even thrusts before Sherlock clenched around him, a mischievous grin could be seen on his face, even through the exhaustion, and John came hard, filling Sherlock with his seed as he cried out.

Several deep breaths and a tender extraction later, Sherlock was half-draped over John’s chest once more, this time thoroughly sated and near asleep.

“I want to stay John, for good. I’ll try and get a job so I can help with the rent, and food, and trivial things like that. But I…this is the closest I have ever come to…well—”

“I love you. And you had better stay, Sherlock. That’s an order.” John beat him to it, and Sherlock burrowed his face in John’s shoulder, tail wrapping around his calf. His ears twitched as short fingers probed between them, but Sherlock was blushing too hard to think about looking up at John quite yet.

“Oh my, Sherlock. Have I found…a _kink??”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as seen here, leave me prompts and I will do my utmost to research (if need be) and get them to you. hope you liked it! drop me a line!  
> ps if you are reading anything else by me, I am rewriting a few of my stories because I hate them, so be patient, please.


	5. Sissy Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry. I may have discovered a new kink for this anonymous request (they're offline). I didn't even know it had a name until I did research for this chapter. sissy training is when you basically fuck a male person who is wearing a cock cage so that they can't orgasm. usually they are in cross-dressing garb, but I was shooting for a short drabble here so I cut that out. if you have any kinks you want seen, clearly I will research it for you and work it out.  
> AKA: i'll make it happen if you ask!

_Oh God, John…please!_

John dutifully ignored the cry echoing down the hall, reverberating in his bones. Sherlock had been particularly nasty to John’s parents at a nice sit-down over their weekend in London, and had gotten himself locked in a chastity cage for his trouble. John had also gagged him with a nice spider gag and fucked his mouth slow for over an hour, but that was neither here nor there.

At present, the detective had nothing on, no cases in his email inbox and his phone turned to airplane mode (John’s doing), so John had tied him down with a sweetly crooned teasing of promised orgasms and then flipped him to his front, still in the cock cage, with his arms and legs akimbo. Sherlock writhed for all of a second until John snuck two lubed fingers up his arse and wriggled them around, only to extract them before Sherlock even got comfortable and instead stuck a nice thick prostate massager inside.

The problem was, for Sherlock that is, that Sherlock still had on the cock cage. He couldn’t get hard, and yet his body was presently being wracked with the pulsing pleasure of having his tender gland vibrated ruthlessly. He wanted to get hard; _god_ he wanted to be good for John, even only enough so that he’d take off the cage and let Sherlock come. But he knew that he was in for the long haul here. John was humiliated in front of his parents because of what Sherlock had said, and now he was going to have to pay.

Truth be told, Sherlock might have a little bit done it on purpose to get a reaction out of John—he did so love their more physical encounters—but he had never envisioned this level of punishment.

Still, Sherlock hoped in his head that John would have some mercy and come in and take off the plastic cage and fuck him hard and maybe make him get himself off after John had come in his arse and left him feeling used and empty. That was the usual reprimand for being rude.

It was bloody _delicious_.

So Sherlock laid there and tried to ignore the rhythmic clenching of his arse muscles around the plug, and rubbed his sweat-soaked forehead into the sheets for the third time, craning his neck to hear John in the next room, flipping through a newspaper.

John strained his ear at the sudden silence in the bedroom and waited, turning his paper a page or two so that Sherlock could hear _something_. John had learned early on that even partially sub-dropping Sherlock and then leaving him utterly alone in dead silence was a very bad fiasco waiting to happen.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice cracked as he called out, barely a whimper. The good doctor rolled his eyes and got up, stalking to the bedroom and waiting in the doorway. He tried to look as unconcerned as possible.

“John, I’m sorry… are you going to fuck me today? Please?” Sherlock looked so small there, curled in on himself as much as the ropes would allow him to flex, his arse cheeks clenching and unclenching against the toy buried deep within. John cleared his throat and leaned against the door jamb.

“I’ve already told you that you’re not getting the cage off _for a while,_ Sherlock _._ If I do fuck you, it stays on. You’re not allowed to come until I feel you’ve actually become apologetic for your actions, and _not,_ ” he held up a finger to stop Sherlock from interrupting him, “NOT because you just want to come. You have to make _me_ believe it. And since you decided to take yourself away from me that one time I’ve become something of an expert at telling when you’re lying, Sherlock. Don’t even try or it stays on longer.” John turned and left the room again, closing over the door. The groan he heard Sherlock emit was gut-wrenching, but Sherlock needed to learn a lesson, and John was typically the only one who could deliver it.

Sherlock groaned even louder just to hear himself do it. He hated John’s penchant for “sissy training.” Well, that is, he _would_ if he didn’t get off on it so much.

++++

Okay. John was pushing a limit, now.

He’d been tormenting the detective for weeks yet, going from casual gropings in the kitchen when the detective was experimenting, to jumping in the shower and pretending to give Sherlock a hand job outside of the plastic. Once he’d slicked up his own cock with Sherlock’s shampoo and used the taller man’s arse cheeks as a tight channel to rut himself to completion.

That was more polite though than the fuckings he’d been dealt.

As it was, Sherlock was on his back on the bed, unbound, because he knew how to behave, thank you very much, when John was literally looming over him. The good doctor in question was kneeling atop him now, thighs like gold columns on either side of Sherlock’s pale hips, blades jutting into the wind with abandon. He had been mouthing at Sherlock’s ear and neck, his lips catching the younger man’s in biting kisses followed by tender, unrushed affectionate ones. Their tongues swept along each other, and somehow, someway Sherlock felt down to his bones that this was significantly worse than the rough fucking he had yesterday, or the toying he’d been dealt the day before. A week after John had locked him up in the cage, he’d inserted a medium-sized purple plug in Sherlock’s arse and refused to let him take it out for the entire day, including during a (blessedly) short case they’d had in Chiswick.

In short, he was about to go insane and find a way to rip the damn cage in two if John didn’t relent, tonight. It had been three weeks now, dammit. _Three._ Since they’d started sleeping together and hence become a couple, Sherlock hadn’t managed to go three days without stimulation and subsequently an orgasm from the ministrations of his beloved. Three weeks was to be considered worse than torture, particularly when he had quite possibly been used for more sex by John in the last three weeks than he had been in their entire two year romp together in the first place.

That was probably very incorrect, but he couldn’t give a damn about it just now because that key, _that special tiny fucking key_ was hanging off a thin chain on John’s neck just now and dangling down to lay on his own chest, close to the bullet-hole scar. The desire to reach up and tear it off of John’s neck and take himself out was nearly unbearable, but he stiffened instead, locking his limbs down to refuse them their ambition.

John felt the tension and eased back, kissing down Sherlock’s flat belly to his navel and catching the lip of skin between his teeth lightly. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut but was proud of himself for not making a sound.

“I want to try something new, Sherlock. You can say no…I was going to let you out tonight, to try….” He trailed off and Sherlock looked down, his blood now thrumming under his veins. God, he’d do anything for John to get out of this damnable cage tonight.

John chuckled, and Sherlock belatedly realized that he’d said that bit out loud. It turns out for him that orgasms do not deter intellect but rather are the mediators of it. Three weeks with no coming was proving to be bad for his brain. He could barely think anymore. That case in Chiswick shouldn’t have even had him out of the flat, he should have done it via text, but there he went for all of twenty minutes anyway.

Stupid cock cage.

“I was going to say, today can be a milking day, if you’re amenable. I bought something…” John got up and went into their closet, bringing out a smallish robot-looking device with a long stem attached.

A fucking machine.

Sherlock’s mouth went maybe a little bit dry at the thought.

“I….yes.” John grinned widely as the detective rolled off the bed and onto all fours, crawling to John where he stood, toward the window where the most floor space was. Their clothes were nudged aside and the machine put together with Sherlock’s favorite dildo (it was molded by himself off John’s erect cock one night shortly after they’d started dating) at the end.

John set to work positioning Sherlock where he wanted him, stuffing some pillows under his chest for comfort and tying his hands in a box formation behind his back so they wouldn’t get in the way out of desperation. Sherlock wriggled his arse a bit for the doctor’s amusement as he set about opening him up with blunt fingers. Once three began to slide in and out with little resistance, John positioned the toy at Sherlock’s entrance.

“Wait,” Sherlock cried, arching his hips up and away. “The cage…” he grumbled, glaring up at John. The good doctor chuckled, explaining.

“I’m going to get this started then I’ll take it off, love. I want to watch you fill out with something inside you.” Sherlock threw his head into the pillows then and groaned pitifully. Leave it to John to make his cock try even harder to get hard. It was swelling against the tight plastic now, striving for the free air that his lover had promised him.

John sank the dildo in easily (Sherlock’s pert arse was rather old-hands at taking that particular cock by now, plastic or not) and set the machine to a slow grind in and out. He propped a few books under it for added height, which had the toy gliding over Sherlock’s prostate immediately. He let out a small squeak and shifted, his cock throwing an absolute fit by now in its binding, pulsing angrily in the tight humid heat.

“John, please, have mercy. I’m so sorry that I upset you. I love you, so, so much; with all my heart. You know that?” John’s hands glided up over clammy-flushed skin and he smiled a thin smile.

“I know, Sherlock. I know it,” he sighed as if something in him hurt a little, but before Sherlock could ask, John was unlocking the cage and sliding the clear tubing off, then the thick ring at the base.

Sherlock gasped at the feeling for free air on his limp cock for the first time in three weeks. For Christ’s sake, he missed the feel of the soft cotton of his _pants_ on his cock, he was so deprived for sensation. John’s hand in that instant became almost too much stimulation.    

But there he worked, rubbing lubed fingers over the sensitive skin, gliding up and down until Sherlock was at full mast, which took all of ten seconds since the plastic had been removed.

 _Nggh_ , Sherlock grunted, hiding his face in the crook of his arm on the floor. John shifted next to him and turned the fucking machine on a slow rut. “Oh, God.” Sherlock arched his lower back, getting the toy into just the right spot for the fastest possible orgasm. If John was serious, and this was going to be a milking evening, then Sherlock needed to come fast and hard to get his fix.

John continued to stroke him, muttering a litany of filthy things and adorations as his lips flitted over Sherlock’s sweaty skin. He traced invisible maps over shoulders, under his arm, down his knobbly spine. Sherlock quickly focused on it, trying to use the minor stimulation to his advantage.

It worked, within a minute Sherlock was coming hard, painting the towel under his hips with thin white stripes.

“That’s it, beautiful, let’s get it out. Your bollocks are so heavy, Sherlock. They must be aching,” John rolled them with his free hand, reaching down to adjust the machine to a more rapid thrust when Sherlock began to squirm. It was at a rough staccato now, slamming in down to the rubbery bollocks and then out again before Sherlock could clench around it properly.

“I…John…. _John!_ ” the doctor looked down at a pouting Sherlock, now twisted around to face him a bit better, with a smirk.

“No, darling. We’re going to keep going until you’re positively _empty._ ” Sherlock let out a high pitched keen but just shoved his face back into a pillow, whining pitifully at the overstimulation. In the midst of it, though, he had never gotten all the way soft again, and he was now hard, ready for another orgasm.

John added a bit more lube to the hand at his cock and began running another finger around the stretched rim of Sherlock’s hole, adding to the pressure there. The detective worked his hips backward and wriggled, now in a full whimper.

John managed to squeeze four more loads of come out of his beloved before Sherlock began to come dry, shying away from all touch. John slipped the toy out easily and set Sherlock on the floor on his side, cleaning the toys and lube up, and tossing the towel in the hamper before drawing a bath and helping drag Sherlock’s weak form into the loo, which, by the way, isn’t all that easy when the giant git has a stone and a half on you. Not to mention fourteen centimeters. But in he went, easy as you please.

“You haven’t come, yet, John.” Sherlock muttered, his exhausted body wracking with aching pleasure as his let himself be dunked down into the hot water.

“I’ll make do Sherlock, until tomorrow at least. This was about you.”

“Mm.” Sherlock sighed and let John wash his body from where he sat outside the tub. The good doctor let his languid love soak until the water went cold and he was nearly asleep before tugging him out and patting a fluffy towel over his thin frame, catching all the water beads in his leg hairs and his curls as Sherlock swayed sleepily in the middle of the loo.

“You need to piss?” John asked, standing back upright and wrapping the towel around Sherlock’s bony hips.

The detective nodded and John went out, changing into some pyjama bottoms and a vest for bed. When Sherlock came out, he was naked and glared at John in a sleepy-half-cocked sort of way. John sighed like he was losing a battle and slid the bottoms off, curling under the duvet and waiting.

Sherlock came over to his side of the bed with a slight limp and slid under alongside John, curling under so he was the little spoon.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“I think… that is, I would like…if you’re willing to, that is,”

“Sherlock, out with it.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and got his brave pants on. Which is to say, he was too strung-out to care what anyone would think if he were being recorded just now.

“I think you should fuck me before we go to sleep.”

“You must be too sore, Sherlock, it’s fine. I can wait until—

“John, you’;re not getting me. I’m saying, it was rude of you to keep me locked up for three weeks and then run me dry on a bit pf rubber without getting to have you inside me at all. Get it up, get it in me, and leave it there when we fall asleep. I want to drift off with your cock still in me, feeling it. Please?”

God help him, John’s heart did a little flutter before his cock caught up with his blood pressure, but there it was, nudging at Sherlock’s sore, tired, stretched hole before either of them made a move to get it there.

John kicked out of his pants and shucked his vest, throwing both to the floor as he spat in his palm and slicked up, sliding easily into Sherlock’s abused hole with a wince at the detective’s catching of breath.

To his credit, John made it quick. He thrust all of thirteen times before he stilled, coming deep and hard at Sherlock’s words, hand clenched around a bony protuberance of a hip. Sherlock sighed a happy, contented sigh and relaxed into the mattress a bit further.

“My God, I love you, Sherlock. You let me do such terrible things to you,” John murmured as he ran a hand over Sherlock’s body.

“Oh, John. I let you return the favor,” he returned, nestling his behind further into John’s lap. John tightened his grip around the younger man and fell asleep with Sherlock clenching around his softening cock.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment on here if you want anything special seen, please! i'll make it happen!  
> xoxoxoxo


	6. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John invents new ways to torment a badly-behaved consulting detective

CHAPTER 2:

_John punishes Sherlock various ways for nearly burning down the flat to get attention. Now he has all of John’s attention; does he still want it?_

‘J—Juh— _John!_ ’ the good doctor smiles cruelly at the stammered plea and sips at his cuppa. Sherlock can hear the paper being shook out behind him, but can’t see his boyfriend. He’s been blindfolded and strung up for nearly an hour. The detective takes a moment to assess his damages.

His left side hurt from where John had been a little too rough with the riding crop. Would heal in a day or two; he’d be fine. Nothing John did to him ever hurt more than a couple days, no matter how hard he tried to make it last. The only thing currently driving him mad is the large plug lodged in his arse, going nowhere. It’s just sitting there. He can’t thrust back on it, he can’t get away from it. It’s just there, holding him open. Christ, it doesn’t even _vibrate._   

So sit there he does, waiting, testing the water. Oh, and he has a lovely, _tight_ fucking chastity device on his cock. Did he mention that? How could he possibly forget? His arms are strung over his head onto the abdominal workout gear that neither of them has ever used (for its intended purpose. It does, however, make a lovely bondage getup when the fancy strikes, and in this flat, by God, it _strikes._ ) It sits on the door jamb, nice and tight over the lintel, his fingers wrapped around the handles because he’s tall enough for that, but still tied there for reassurance. John makes no mistakes in his knotting.

Where was he? Oh, yes. Waiting. Waiting for John to get over his little strop he’s in over Sherlock nearly burning a hole through the kitchen floor with acid.

The fight went thusly:

“Sherlock, what is that bloody acid for?”

“Nothing in particular. An experiment, if you want an excuse.”

“Why are you being stroppy today? Black mood, then?”

“No, John, of course not. I’m simply bored and you’re readying to go out shopping, of all things.”

“Yes, Sherlock, we need milk. And tea. And you know, food. To eat. Because I do that fairly often, thankyouverymuch.”

“Oops.”

So, the acid got knocked off the table (by _accident_ …) and instead of helping him clean it up, John got himself worked up and decided that Sherlock did it on purpose so that he couldn’t leave for the shop, because he was things like _needy_ and _an attention whore._ Well, maybe Sherlock was indeed both of those things, but he certainly didn’t need to burn a hole in the floor of the kitchen to prove that. He worked there. What on earth would that prove? That he didn’t mind having some of his toes dangling into a hole under the table while he worked? _Yes, that makes sense John. Let’s believe that_.

But instead, John tied him up, blindfolded him, worked this toy into his arse, mysteriously disappeared with an electric drill for about ten minutes, then returned to ruddy him up with the riding crop.

The chastity device had been in place since yesterday, when he had also been in trouble. (Let’s not get into that one.)

‘John,’ Sherlock rasped. He’d cried himself hoarse taking his cropping on top of yesterday’s half-healed caning stripes. He heard the paper ruffle in response. ‘Can I come down now? I’ll do whatever you’d like.’ Silence permeated the flat. He wasn’t even sure John was breathing. ‘I’m sorry for the floor,’ he muttered.

‘You can come down momentarily, but only if you consent to the next trial without knowing what it is. I’m not sure you’ll like it, but then again, it’s not really for you. It’s for me to watch while you struggle. Will you do it?’ John paused to let him decide.

Sherlock waited and considered his words carefully. ‘How long will I be made to suffer through it before you untie me, and what is the reward for not complaining?’ John chuckled. He knew his lover too well.

‘If you can make yourself work a solid half an hour, I don’t think your thighs will last longer than that, I’ll untie you, take you down, take the cock cage off, and fuck you. You’ll be so tender, honey.’ John’s probing finger made Sherlock jump out of his skin. Until the last sentence, he had been across the room on his chair, but now the good doctor was running a spit-slicked finger around his rim enticingly where it stretched to accommodate the plug. Sherlock’s thighs trembled. John ran a hand soothingly down his flank. ‘None of that now, my love. You’re going to need your legs good and strong for this one.’

John untied Sherlock’s wrists from the ab gym and let him rest them on the shorter man’s shoulders. He was turned and walked into their bedroom where John had constructed his latest device to use against rude flat mate.

He’d exhaust Sherlock until he couldn’t _breathe_.

O.O.O.O.O.O.

There were two shortened chains dangling from eye hooks in the ceiling of their bedroom. Maybe a foot or so long. Below that was a long stick, several inches longer than Sherlock’s legs, protruding perpendicularly from the floor. At its end was a thick, straight dildo. That was it.

Sherlock had been made to stand on two cider blocks next to the pole while John switched out the plug for the dildo and sank Sherlock down on it. He found that if he impaled himself fully, either by letting his legs rest or by putting his toes on the floor, it was just the wrong side of painful. But far from too much to handle. There was just enough of a lip created by the flat surface the dildo was situated to that he could sit on it, but it was uncomfortable.

So the option was, sit and hurt or stand and shake. He could already feel the energy leaving his lower limbs and it hadn’t even been five minutes.

‘John,’ Sherlock shuddered out, rising back up on his toes and off the rubber cock. In response, John shucked his pants and came over, fondling himself with one hand and kicking the blocks several feet away. Now Sherlock’s aides were requiring more effort to use and were so far away he was gripping at the rough texture with his long toes. He slid a few inches down the dildo, his breath knocked out of his chest.

‘Not yet, Sherlock. Look at me,’ John demanded in a soft voice. He sat back on the edge of the bed. When the detective complied, John reached back for his own cock. ‘You’re doing so well love. So good for me. A few more minutes, and I’ll take off the cage. You can feel every bit, Sherlock. Would you like that?’ Sherlock bit his bottom lip almost hard enough to bleed as he sank back down all the way, giving his legs a few minutes’ rest. He sucked in a breath and nodded, rising back up. The slow drag of the toy on his prostate was torture, without being able to get hard inside the cage. He could feel his cock trying to struggle against the hard plastic. He looked down and gasped. The pain from his trapped cock was mingling with the pleasure glancing off his prostate, and it was sending sparkling light through his blood.

‘God, John _please_ , I can’t…I—’ the younger man had begun shivering, almost vibrating. John looked back at the bedside clock, fingers dragging over his own erection, tugging at the foreskin. Sherlock’s eyes were now glued on his hand, licking his over-plump lips, thighs quivering. It had now been fifteen minutes.

Instead of answering, John stood and went out of the room. Sherlock huffed and sank down on the toy, wincing at the sudden intrusion to his abused internal muscles.

‘I wonder,’ John intoned as he came back into the room, erection first. He was holding an open manila folder full of Sherlock’s most recent case. The detective’s eyes widened. ‘I wonder if I made you solve this before you could come…do you think you could?’ John glanced down at the file and snapped it closed. Sherlock held his breath. Of course he’d never be able to focus on something like The Work while he was this strung-out, this painfully aroused. Only when john threw the file down and held up the key he’d actually left the room to retrieve did Sherlock breathe again.

John came forward and Sherlock straightened up, sitting half-on the toy and pushing his hips forward as much as he could manage. John unlocked the cage and slid it off, leaving the tight ring at the base, surrounding his cock and bollocks, for now.

‘You want to come, love?’ John crooned, fisting Sherlock’s rapidly filling cock with spit-slicked fingers.

‘Oh, John, please,’ he begged, pumping his hips up-forward and back-down, still trying to fuck himself on the dildo and be good for John. He knew that it was the only way he was going to get off any time soon. His muscles were screaming, thighs burning and aching with the effort. John showed little mercy, continuing to twist his wrist and squeeze, plumping up his already aching cock some more.

‘Shhh, shh, love. Just a few more minutes. You’re doing so good, working yourself into exhaustion for me. Such a good boy, look how beautiful you are,’ John murmured sweet nothings, making Sherlock flush deeper and whimper almost seamlessly for the remaining minutes until he was due to be set free.

Sherlock almost came twice during the remaining minutes, each ending with John pinching the base of his cock until the need was staved off.

‘Do you think that you could come like this? Do you want to?’ John asked quietly.

‘No, John no, _please_ , I want…you said if I was good you’d f—fuck me. I…that’s what I want, please. I just—I can’t, I, _John_!’ the younger man writhed, feet dropping to the floor in his desperation, the toy now fully lodged in side of him, his chest heaving, sweat dripping off every surface of his body. His curls are plastered to his neck and forehead, the rest laying in a limp halo on top of his tossing head.

John smiled widely and nudged the blocks back up under Sherlock’s feet, letting him lift up and off the dildo. It slid out with a wet squelch, making Sherlock wince as his overabused hole attempted to close around nothing. ‘Agh—’

‘Shh, Sherlock, come on love, I’ve got you,’ John steered his love toward the bed and down onto it. Sherlock collapsed on his front, but John tugged him over onto his side and lifted one long pale leg. Fingers sought his rim and spread some cool lube, the faint tingle taking away much of the burn he had worked into himself at John’s command.

‘Please, John…I just—your cock, please,’ Sherlock was beside himself, writhing, _wanting_ so much he thought he’d explode from the blood rushing in his veins if John didn’t finish him off soon. Blissfully, John slid in behind him and he felt the blunt nudge of his prize trying to catch his rim. With a twist of hips, John sank into him fully and Sherlock let out a deep groan.

John enveloped him, his hands all over, rubbing down his sweat-soaked chest and his smell was just everywhere. Saturating even more than the sweat ever could.

For his part, Sherlock was utterly wiped out. He lay there like a slug, letting John adjust him and move his legs about, rolling or turning them how he wanted to. Eventually John settled in behind him, tugging until Sherlock was on his knees, kneeling back onto John’s lap, impaled by his tumescent cock. Sherlock achingly propelled himself up and down, slightly forward and back until John began to match his pace back up, hips slamming into hips erratically.

‘Sh-Sher, oh _Christ_ Sherlock,” John cried and fisted his cock roughly, sparkling a heady erection out of the taller man as he collapsed backward against the good doctor. His last thought before passing out in utter bliss was that at least he hadn’t fallen forward into the massive wet spot he’d released.

Once John caught his breath again he eased his unconscious darling forward and onto the clean pillow. He pulled out and disappeared into the en-suite for a wet flannel and to run a good, hot bath. When he came back, Sherlock cracked an eye open but as still clearly too exhausted to move on his own. John chuckled and leaned down to wipe at Sherlock’s abused hole and forward to catch as much trace lube and semen remains as he could. Sherlock groaned at the gentle touch but the little twitches of his hips showed how he was trying to lift them to help. Couldn’t quite make it.

“Come on, love. You can sleep, _we_ can sleep after we take a bath. Come along,’ John urged, half-dragging Sherlock into the steaming bath and draped him over his chest


	7. Infernal Restraint pt1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a minor injury while chasing a suspect. John means to teach him the meaning of self-restraint. long-term orgasm denial, milking, enemas, metal bondage, long scene.

The door slammed, jarring the windows on the second floor. Sherlock rolled his eyes where he stood sentinel in the window over Baker Street, watching- John wasn’t there to see- and put his violin in its case. Tightening the russet dressing gown around his waist further, Sherlock stood still, glaring onto the street below.

He knew he’d been poorly behaved today, to Lestrade specifically, but frankly, when was he ever _not?_ John should have learned to get over such things by now. The punishment he was certain to endure wouldn’t be any worse than the others. His hide still ached when he sat on something hard from the thrashing a few days ago, and his cock was still wrapped in hard plastic since weeks before that. He hadn’t come in… god, four weeks now.

_Nngh, milking today then. John wouldn’t let me build up much longer. Punishment? Likely not beating on top of healing wounds. Something else then. Something I won’t like. That is, after all the point._

John stomped up the stairs, thinking about wheat he was going to do to his lover. No beatings (still sore). No deprivation (still deprived). No electrocution, they were both bored by that already. When he came into the room and saw Sherlock sitting by the window, the doctor suppressed the urge to go to him immediately and shake him. He didn’t even spare a glance once the detective turned around. John walked right into the toilet and got what he needed ready.

Ten minutes later – _enema. Useful, I hate them, but dull, John-_ Sherlock came to the door of the loo and peered in. His gown had come a bit loose at the top and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Preemptive stripping at its finest. In fact, he was only wearing a tiny pair of briefs under the dressing gown, not sure what John would want to do once they got home.

_Once he got home. Left him at the crime scene again in my haste to flee; the feel of his eyes shooting daggers at my back. Made it worse. Neglectful._

_Why does he stay?_

“Strip.” John sounded terse but almost… bored. Like, ‘let’s get this over with.’ Sherlock’s hands flew obediently to his belt but he froze when he felt the tone settle in his marrow.

“John?”

“Come along, Sherlock. You know what to do.” John waved his hand around. “I’d like to get this done so that we can have a cuddle and order in.” John scrubbed a hand down his face and turned finally, straightening and looking Sherlock dead in the eye. “Hungry.” Sherlock crushed the urge to bite his lip like a child and stripped the rest of the way down, his sheathed cock dangling uselessly between his legs. John gestured to the bathtub and Sherlock crawled in, hands on the back edge, arse angled toward his lover.

John made quick work of the hose and bag, adding a bit of castile soap and making sure the temperature was right before hanging it from the shower curtain rod and prepping the nozzle. Sherlock remained silent, but he was all nerves. John was really angry this time. To the point of ‘why do I bother.’

_Good question, one I had always feared you’d come to. Stupid to hope that I could change. Even for you. Nngh._ John slid the lubed nozzle into his arsehole and pressed down on Sherlock’s lower back, indicating that he should lean down. Sherlock pressed his chest into the floor of the tub and waited prettily. When the water began to flow, he flinched.

“Too hot?” John asked. Sherlock turned his face away from the doctor and shook his head. Where John couldn’t see, he worried his lower lip and tried to ignore the itchy trickle of fluid in his colon.

After the second bag had drained, Sherlock was cramping. He tried to keep them quiet, but when John slid out the nozzle and pushed in a plug, Sherlock knew he’d be dealing with the pains for a while. “Up.” John tugged at his hair until Sherlock was kneeling in the tub, facing out into the loo. He pushed Sherlock’s hands down until the knuckles dragged the basin of the tub and straightened.

“You’re to sit here and think about today while that works in you. Silent,” he added when Sherlock opened his mouth. “I have other things to deal with now.” John walked from the room and shut the door, closing the younger man off from him and his distracting sounds.

_Hateful. Being alone. If I’d wanted this, John we never would have started. Cramping. Oh god, please come back soon._ Sherlock tried to stay out of his own head. Mind Palace was forbidden during punishments. John could sense it like a hound on a trail. He’d come back and slap him or worse. Take the plug out and leave. Go drinking. Refuse to play. _Like I could blame you. I am, by definition, a sore loser. Love you. With all my heart. Beautiful man. Come back, please._

Meanwhile, John was busy setting something up in the sitting room. For the remainder of the evening and part of the next morning, Sherlock was going to be held here, naked, aroused, and captive. Until he learned his lesson (serves him right. Bleeding sod, running off _and_ being a cock about it, blood draining into his eye. Yelled at Lestrade about being _obvious_. I’ll show you what’s obvious, love. You belong to me, here, safe. Sound. God I love you. Ridiculous man).

Every time John made a loud noise, he could hear a resulting whimper from the toilet. John rolled his eyes, screwed in the last piece, set out the leather bits, and straightened. Taking a deep breath, he went back into the loo, wiping his hands on his jeans and setting them on his hips.

“What did you do wrong tonight, Sherlock?” the detective winced at the formality, curling in on himself inside the tub. His hands strayed to his thighs from where they’d been sitting curled on the bottom of the tub next to his sides.

“I ran after the suspect, was cut by his knife in a backhand, then I insulted Lestrade about all of it. And embarrassed you.” He can feel his lower lip tremble slightly and feels horrified. His face drops to the tub floor but John won’t have it.

“Head up boy, or we are done playing.” The detective snaps his head up and forces his fingers to stop flickering about. “I am about sick of punishing you for the same thing, almost every case. I’m about to take it off the table. Obviously what I do is not good enough each time. After this time, if you do it again, if you are an _utter COCK_ again, we are done with punishments. No more playing. I’m exhausted, don’t you see?” Sherlock winces again. John screaming would be so much better than this calm, detached, almost _old_ voice he is using now. It feels like a hot knife to his gut, interrupting the painful, jarring cramps. John’s voice gets softer but does not lose a decibel of its former tone. “That by no means indicates, Sherlock that I am done with _you_. Just that it gets exhausting. All of this,” he gestures up to the enema bag and out into the sitting room where he has just constructed something terrible. “Get up and sit,” John flicks the toilet’s lid up and indicates that Sherlock is to sit. His time-out is up.

With a wince and a short gasp, Sherlock heaves himself up and steps out of the tub, sitting on the toilet. His hands still dangle uselessly to the sides of his hips. “Remove it,” John says. The detective’s eyes widen. He’s never been allowed to touch something that John has put in him. Gingerly, he reaches between his legs, past the plastic casing of his cock and tight, heavy bollocks to his opening. He traces and then tugs experimentally at the plug, but it is in tight. It won’t budge. Wincing, he tugs a bit more firmly, but gasps at the searing pain when it starts to stretch his hole once more. Eyes wide, he looks up to his lover. John grimaces and leans down, tugging the toy out quickly. It pops out, along with the fluid and soap and dissolved waste, but it didn’t hurt like it had when Sherlock tried.

While he’s draining, John washes the equipment and strides into the bedroom for a toy he’d forgotten. When he comes back, Sherlock is wriggling in the toilet. He’s done and empty now. Uncomfortably so. John lubricates the toy and tugs Sherlock into a standing pose, braced against the wall. He slides the toy inside with a bit of work, as it is a short, round plug. The younger man clenches around it several times, and John watches as if hypnotized by the in and out suction of his arse muscles around the toy. Sherlock huffs out a disappointed breath and stands up from the wall.

It is a short, round ball-plug that in no way offers relief for the wearer, only forces them open nice and wide. It’s far too short to reach Sherlock’s prostate, but as wide as a doorknob. John washes his hands and towels them off, still staring. He’s panting a little. Sherlock turns and stares blatantly at the tiny key dangling off of John’s neck, and the doctor almost laughs aloud when he sees the question there.

“There is no way in hell you’re getting an orgasm tonight, Sherlock. Probably for longer than I planned, now. I’ll milk you dry, be certain. You’ll be hurting tomorrow. Unlikely to run _anywhere_ for a few days. But you won’t get the satisfaction.” John bullies him out the door and into the sitting room. There is an assortment of things going on, but namely Sherlock identifies his chief concern.

A low table, their coffee table, actually, has been made into a kneeling bench. John has attached metal pipes with elbow bends over it, to make a frame that extends from and is stabilized by the table surface and legs. John guides Sherlock to it and pushes him down to his knees.

“Do you submit to me for your punishment tonight, Sherlock?”

“Yes John.” _God yes, take me now, beautiful man. Make me never forget. How could I? You. Make it hard to stand, soldier._

“Tonight you’ll be gagged. Open.” John holds up a spider gag and Sherlock opens his mouth for it, tonguing the bits as they settle in behind his molars. This one has rubber stoppers on it, for long-term wear without damaging the teeth. Sherlock trembles. It has a face harness attached. John secures the buckle behind his head, then attaches the inverted V shape over his nose and eyes, stretching down to the strap over his cheeks, where another strip of leather goes under his chin, his whole face held hostage. “Your safe word will have to be snapping. Can you snap?” Sherlock nods and snaps for John, who seems pleased that his boy can obey the shadow of a command. “Your arms will be tied, but your hands free. One snap for green, two for yellow. More than that will end the scene immediately. Yes?” Sherlock nods and snaps once.

The next step is to secure Sherlock into the frame he’s built. He guides the lanky detective under the beam, so his stomach s on the wooden surface, hips against the edge of the table. His arms are drawn back and up, over the beam, where each wrist is shackled to the corresponding bar next to it. His chest is off the table, but his stomach and hips are supported decently. Uncomfortable, but certainly not painful. A spreader bar is attached between his knees, with leather cuffs there and once more at the ankles, holding him completely, defenselessly open. John eases a hand down his flank and pat his bum before walking a few steps away.

“Color?” One snap. John holds up two small ear plugs. Sherlock turns his head and lets John press and work one, then the other in. he can still hear, but everything is muffled. Only louder noises come through, or deep vibrations, such as John’s voice. He whimpers a bit, which sounds loud with his mouth hanging open. John pauses, so he snaps once. His eyes are closed.

John returns with one last thing. He holds up a silk sleeping mask, designed to block out all light. Sherlock holds his head still while John settles it over his eyes and steps back. Two taps on his shoulder. (You okay?) He answers with one snap. John eases a hand down his side and over his bum again, tapping hard on the plug’s base. Sherlock jumps, but goes nowhere. His mouth is getting dry.

_So roll your tongue around, idiot._ He does, with minimal results. John is prepared, however, and has a spray bottle handy. He sprays into Sherlock’s mouth to wet it, and then rolls two fingers around in there, down into his throat and then trailing thick spit down his chin. Sherlock is sinking, fast. He feels like he’s almost there, almost floating. John tugs at his hair a little, tweaks his nipples. He pinches them hard, then seems to disappear.

Sherlock does not panic, he can feel wyes on him, though he is apprehensive of being left alone in such a state. He’d never be able to get out of this. God, Mrs. H or Mycroft walking in just now… Sherlock whines high in his throat and feels John coming closer again. The pinching is back, focused right on his nipples. One hard squeeze and they’re hard, peaked. Getting sore. John licks them in turn, causing the detective to jut his chest out, seeking comfort. But John recedes and clamps are closing in. he tugs and then locks a clover-leaf clamp over each; the rough gurgle in Sherlock’s throat makes him smile. Two taps. One snap, but it takes a moment of breathing for it to get out. John waits, rubbing over soft skin, trailing soft fingers everywhere, a few light slaps to an upturned bum. Nothing too hard. Not now.

This lesson is about restraint, not pain. Sherlock only thinks it’s going to be short-lived. It will be anything but. John taps out a Morse code on Sherlock’s shoulder, telling him _kitchen, safe, can see you._ Sherlock relaxes a bit and tries to feel for vibrations in the wood flooring. When John returns it is with a cup of ice, an empty old plastic butter tub, and a cuppa. He tugs his red armchair over to be right next to Sherlock and props his feet up right next to Sherlock’s right elbow. He rests his mug on Sherlock’s flank ( _remain still, no not flinch. Spilt tea will hurt more than whatever he’s about to do)_ and fishes an ice cube. Once one has been singled out, John cracks it in half with his molars and takes up his tea mug. Once half of the ice goes between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, letting gravity trail it slowly downward, the other is used to paint frozen motifs along the expanse of Sherlock’s back, down to trace around his stretched hole where it grips the plug. Back up again. John seems to consider something; Sherlock dreads it. _Whenever he has a plan, it’s all fine. When he stops to formulate something new, my hide takes the brunt. Lovely man_.   Sherlock tries to relax, to sink back into the sub-space he’d been tailing, but John catches him off guard by tugging at the plug in his arse. _So soon, John? My, you haven’t even wrecked my throat yet._ He must have garbled some of that aloud, however, because John chuckles. He can feel the low vibration in his own chest. Instead of replacing the gaping heat of his backside with fingers, John stuffs two ice cubes in ahead of three fingers, and revels in the convulsions of Sherlock’s hold around the sudden, searing cold.

He tries to push them out, but John’s fingers are in the way. He tries to ignore them, but when they sit too still he loses feeling to the too-cold-now-it’s-hot?-sensation. He whines, bucks, and tugs at his wrists, trying even to clamp his thighs shut, nothing works. John is persistent. His fingers remain, still and stable. Occasionally they will wriggle, as he turns the channel on the telly ( _can hear the high-tinny sound of speakers now)_ or takes a sip of his tea. He seems to enjoy just having a part of himself inside Sherlock, even just resting there.

After another fifteens minute or so, Sherlock feels the need to piss. He snaps at John, who removes his fingers ( _uncomfortably empty now—never mind)_ and works the toy back into place. Two snaps means yellow. A rest is asked for and granted in the form of a cup placed under Sherlock’s bound penis. He doesn’t want to, even balks at it, trying to avoid pissing into the cup, but an insistent hand on his bladder presses it out of him. John takes the cup to the loo and flushes it down, washing the cup out and returning.

Two taps. One snap. _Vulgar._

John sits back down and tugs the plug back out. He replaces it now with a wrapped and lubricated dildo. One of their favorites, in fact. It has a nice curve to it, for prostate stimulation. He works it in and out in a steady rhythm, causing Sherlock to buck back in his bonds as much as he can. He wants it deeper, harder. John knows that, and keeps the thrusts just shallow enough to tease his prostate. When the build-up becomes inevitable, John angles Sherlock’s cock over the bowl he brought for this purpose and catches the thick stream of come that ejects from the cock cage. It offers no real relief other than making the detective’s bollocks a little less heavy, a little less tender, but Sherlock is still writhing as much as he can. John pulls the phallus out and sticks his fingers back in, wriggling them roughly. Sherlock is still gasping, trying to catch up, but doesn’t get the chance before John urges his prostate into another ejaculation. After, he leaves Sherlock empty and goes to the loo to wash up.

Two taps. One snap, with a particularly shaky hand. John runs his fingers over the fading welts left behind from a few days ago. Sherlock’s mind is deathly silent. He can’t even think of where he is. All that exists right now is John’s fingers on his skin. His hole clenches around open air, trying to close. Before he can think it, John is removing the spreader bar at his ankles and unlinking his wrists from their attachment sites. Confusion spreads, but John is quick to dispel it with a rough tug backward, under the frame-bar.

Sherlock lands hard on his arse, knees still splayed open, cock cage tapping on the hardwood, mouth still agape. He angles his face blearily up at John in question. John leads him into a short, awkward crawl a few feet to the side where a rather large dildo has been suctioned to the floor. He rolls a condom down over it and smears lubricant over the toy and then over Sherlock’s loosened hole. John gets Sherlock up onto his knees and then lowers him over the toy. With a trembling groan, the detective takes half of it easily, sitting down on his ankles. His bollocks brush the fake ones gently, making him shiver. John reaches behind him and attaches his wrist cuffs to the cuffs at his knees, trapping them there.

Sherlock follows each movement with a half-second-too-slow movement of his head. (Down deep. Good.) He removes the blindfold; verdigris eyes blink open back at him. John motions up and down with his upturned palm; Sherlock obeys slowly, awkwardly. He rises up a few inches and then lets gravity sink him back down with a shudder. John taps his shoulder. Sherlock snaps once and heaves a sigh. His back straightens. John will want his mouth now. _Come get it, please. Want you. God. My soldier._

“You want my cock in there?” John asks, fingering Sherlock’s lower lip where saliva has spilled over. Sherlock nods, a bit sleepily. His heart is pounding. John smiles; it is not a good smile. “You make yourself come. One more, at least. Then you can have mine, any way you want it.” Sherlock tries to snarl but just looks pitiful. He wants John’s cock _while_ he tries to make himself come. “If you can’t do it, I’ll put you back in the frame with the ball-plug and leave you alone all night. You’ll piss yourself by morning.” Sherlock scrunches up his face but gets to work as John sits, having moved his armchair again. _This is all about restraint? Fine, John. Let me show you some._

Sherlock begins to work himself up and down on the toy at a rapid, harsh pace, angling his hips until the bulbous head of the toy glances off his prostate. He jerks in his bonds when it does, the poor gland is so over-stimulated. John is watching him with rapt attention, fisting his own cock. Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on it, the idea of any kind of touch on his neglected member is a faraway dream to him, it’s been so long. Four weeks. The though alone almost makes him ejaculate. Come isn’t the right term, not in this manner. Drool spills down his chest, sticky and slick. It drizzles into the ring around his balls and cock, wetting the space between. His hips pumps faster as does John’s hand. He wants to taste that come, not see it on the floor. He’s almost there, almost ready to let loose. John sees this and brings the bowl over, half-filled with thick white, cold come. Another load is added. Sherlock is positively shaking on the toy now, aching beyond belief and crying out hoarsely. John soothes him, running gentle hands over his frame.

“Want off the toy?” Sherlock shakes his head, no. _The idea of being so open and empty on both ends is unendurable. Need to be filled. God, soldier, please._ He thrusts his head at John, eager to take him now. John chuckles and thrusts into Sherlock’s mouth as deeply as he dares, letting the younger man gag for a second before withdrawing. Before he can think to let Sherlock catch his breath, the detective lunges forward with no hands (still attached) and swallows John down again. John takes a step back, and Sherlock cannot reach, both because he is impaled on the floor and because his knees are held apart so widely. He can’t crawl. A high whine permeates the flat and Sherlock snaps angrily.

“What is the lesson about, Sherlock?” John demands, taking another step back and fisting his cock. Sherlock garbles out something akin to “restraint” and glares at him. “Do you think you are doing a good job of portraying self-restraint?” he huffs and shakes his head, no. “Absolutely. You wanton little slag.” Sherlock’s ears turn pink and he waits, chastened. His fingers curl into fists, but in restraint, not anger. _Only for you, John. You know. Don’t you?_ John replaces the blindfold.

After a few minutes wherein Sherlock is shockingly docile and still, John comes back, stepping in between splayed knees and makes Sherlock reach for it. He has to raise a few inches up off the toy to do so, and winces. John reaches down and sprays a benzoicated lubricant over the toy, easing the way. Sherlock seems grateful and begins to bob up and down once John rights himself again. A few inches up sinks John several inches into his throat. He sinks down to raise up off John’s cock. Faster and faster until John stumbles a step forward and sinks balls-deep into Sherlock’s throat, unable to resist any longer. As Sherlock can feel him coming, though, he pulls out entirely and paints Sherlock’s face with white stripes. The detective whines and tries to lap at them, but cannot reach any with his mouth locked open the way it is. He hangs his head and mopes.

“You behave and you can taste some later.” _Later? Are we not done?_ “Not done by a long shot, love. Need a break yet?” Sherlock shakes his head but John demands that he drink some and eat a few bites of cheese and apple with peanut butter before they continue. As he makes the food, he watches Sherlock, who is now off the toy ( _Uncomfortably empty. Hateful.)_ and sitting by John’s chair. His knees are removed of the bar, the gag is removed, and he is silent. John returns and sits in his chair with a glass of water and straw, a plate of apples with honey and peanut butter on them, and cheese cubes. He tugs Sherlock’s head by the hair into his lap and feeds him bite-sized pieces.

When the plate is empty and the glass drained, John moves to get up but is stilled by a hand around his ankle.

“John?” Sherlock asks in a quiet, meek voice he’s only heard a couple times before. It makes his heart still. (What, you mad creature?)

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“We… we aren’t done yet, are we?”

“No, Sherlock. Not by a long shot.”       

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be a follow up chapter to this one, btw.   
> for those of you worrying about me continuing "The Principles of Hope" don't fret. the issue is that I keep rewriting it, and/or deleting what I had written in a fit of pique over some detail I wish i'd included/not included. be patient, more will come when I get over myself.   
> as always, comment for specific scenes you'd like, and I will strive to deliver. hope you enjoyed ^-^


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